


Multitudes Who Sleep In the Dust of the Earth

by zuotian



Category: South Park
Genre: Adulthood, Death, F/M, Illustrations, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mental Health Issues, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Abortion, Past Drug Addiction, Philosophy, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Religion, Slow Burn, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2020-10-27 07:47:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20756846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zuotian/pseuds/zuotian
Summary: Jarred by an unexpected crisis, Wendy abandons her dreams of social activism and moves back to South Park where she finds an apartment, a job babysitting drug addicts, and a pet cat.Her newfound routine is broken when she runs into an old acquaintance: Kenny McCormick. After dropping out of high school, Kenny faded into obscurity whereupon rumors of substance abuse and mental breakdowns proliferated. Expecting him to behave like her clients, Wendy decides to take him off the streets.But nothing is what it seems. Kenny's psychological state is juxtaposed by cryptic allusions to bigger mechanisms at play. The revelation he bestows not only forces Wendy to confront her past, but makes her question the nature of reality itself - and all the while navigate her growing attraction towards him.(On hiatus cuz I wanna do this story right. Need to work some more of it out. I promise when I pick it up again it'll be better than ever.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ALL CHARACTERS AND EVENTS IN THIS FANFICTION—EVEN THOSE BASED ON A REAL SHOW—ARE ENTIRELY GRATUITOUS. ALL CANONICAL DIALOGUE IS IMPERSONATED ... POORLY. THE FOLLOWING FANFICTION CONTAINS COARSE LANGUAGE AND DUE TO ITS CONTENT IT SHOULD NOT BE READ BY ANYONE.

Wendy had always known a lot of people but didn’t have any real friends. It remained thus well into her adulthood. The only person she considered a true companion was Stan, but that was simply because they’d been dating for more than ten years. Wendy realized she was Stan’s beard before he even knew he was gay, and when the time came for him to finally recognize his sexuality she passed him on to Kyle with relief and minimal sorrow, unsurprised by their seminal parting. 

Freed from platonic duties, she jetted off to Denver for a degree in political science, then switched her major to social work for a more grassroots, boots-on-the-ground occupation. During an experimental phase lasting two years she engaged in heterosexual and lesbian encounters, both of which she enjoyed without preference, or any sense of a visceral connection. 

She graduated in the top of her class, accomplished in her studies with a range of fruitful internships under her belt, and remained in Denver for the rest of the summer, trying to decide her next move. East or West, it didn’t really matter - she just wanted to live on the coast, in a big metropolitan city that was the physical and intellectual antithesis of South Park. 

Her plans soon evaporated, however, with startling news. Unplanned Parenthood called after a uniform STD screening and requested that she come in for a follow up appointment. Mildly perturbed, Wendy obliged. Plagued by a weird summer flu, she hadn’t noticed any symptoms specifically pertaining to her sexual health. 

The nurse practitioner sat her down and reported that she was pregnant. Wendy’s world immediately collapsed to the size of the zygote developing inside of her womb. She went back to her apartment, cried, slept, and ate in a depressive binge for two whole days. 

Without a partner or steady source of income, she’d have to abort. Whenever she thought about abortion previously, it was always abstract - she assumed it’d be an easy choice: go in, get out, and you’re done. In reality, the entire experience devastated her mental and physical wellbeing. 

She called Stan and begged him for help. He put his environmental studies on hold, drove up from Naropa, and stayed with her for one week as she recuperated. During that time they shared more intimacy, love, and devotion than the entire span of their romantic relationship.

Wendy emerged radically transformed, all of her dreams and aspirations gone to the wind. She packed up her meager belongings, bid Denver goodbye, and moved back to South Park. Her parents were happy to have her home, but she wasn’t comfortable staying with them for long, and eventually found a cheap apartment in Shi Tpa Town. 

Her accolades and credentials blew any local competition out of the water. Each of her applications were accepted. She passed over South Park’s Unplanned Parenthood - it was still too soon - and got a job at a catch-all community outreach facility which had taken residence in her absence from town. The building neighbored a substance abuse clinic - both establishments were part of a renovated strip mall which now serviced those whom one would expect to require such services.

It was a far cry from her original lofty goals, but Wendy held no qualms with her clientele. The abortion had deconstructed her self-righteous superiority complex, taught her that anything could happen to anybody for any slight mistake. Who was she to judge them, when she herself could be judged in turn?

She liked her job. She liked her apartment, which she furnished with books, houseplants, and a stray cat that kept pawing at her door. She  _ liked _ being back in South Park. Her bar had been reset to its lowest possible standards. She no longer entertained delusions of grandeur. She just wanted to be happy, healthy, and comfortable - it didn’t matter where, or with whom. 

/

Autumn rolled in with a quick could snap, shortly followed by winter. Wendy’s life fell into an easy pattern. She worked full time, proved herself to be an adequate employee, and got handed an enormous caseload, which was fine with her; she didn’t have anything else to do. South Park had already started to grow during her adolescence, flourished even more while she was away at college. But many of her grade had moved away, either for school or jobs, so she had no one to hang out with. 

Her colleagues were all middle-aged, burnt out by decades of work and scornful of her inspired disposition. Besides taking trips up to Boulder to visit Stan and Kyle or meeting her parents for dinner, Wendy became a bit of a recluse. She’d never strongly aligned with introversion or extroversion, able to tailor her social skills to the situation. Her present situation went like this: 

She woke up at six, showered, made breakfast, fed her cat, read the news, read a book, drank some coffee, then went to work, where drank another coffee, went through emails, tidied up her desk, and met with a revolving door of impoverished clients, most of whom were frequent flyers at the substance abuse clinic next door. No matter the temperature, her lunch break was spent outside eating a salad - tuna or chicken, depending on the day. She finished the rest of her shift updating cases with information gleamed in the morning, then clocked out. 

Sometimes she went straight home, made dinner, watched a movie, and went to bed. Other times she went to her parents’ place, or took herself out on a date. Occasionally, she’d drive around the freeway bracketing South Park, let the giant mountains and premature night sky swallow her problems. 

She didn’t have much time to think, busy as she was, but the abortion had a way of creeping into the back of her mind. When it did, she pressed her hands against her stomach, wondering a thousand what-ifs. She’d be halfway through her pregnancy if she hadn’t terminated. There was no way she would have  _ kept _ the child, and her field of work shed light on the horrors intrinsic to the foster care system. Wendy knew she made the right choice, but still - 

Sometimes the right choice was a heavy burden. 

/

It’d been a long shift. Wendy stayed late to file excess case details, then trundled outside in a pea coat, purple scarf, and matching hat. The click of her boots punctuated a gauzy type of silence that only winter could bring. Snow fell at a gentle, unassuming rate across the empty parking lot, inherent with the deluge of gray slush to come in the next week. But for now everything was peaceful and quiet, looking like the B-roll of a Hallmark Christmas movie. 

“Hey, lady!” 

Wendy’s hand stilled on the handle of her car door. She’d put up with various miscreants in her time working here, and wasn’t intimidated by this latest basketcase. Most of her clients were fine people, if a little unhinged. The ones who loitered around after closing time were the real pieces of work. Wendy took a deep breath and turned around. 

A man leaned against the pillar of the strip mall’s awning, the distance between them being the reason he shouted. Wendy couldn’t discern whether or not she recognized him, but his tone of voice tipped her off. She fingered the self-defense keychain in her pocket and widened her shoulders. “Can I help you?” 

The man jerked his thumb at the facade behind him. “You guys open?” 

Wendy frowned, glanced at the dark windows over his shoulder, then tried to triangulate his face to see if he was fucking with her. But she couldn’t see his features through the snow and shadows. 

“We’re closed. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.” Her training kicked in, and she wondered why he was here at all. “Do you have an appointment - or do you need a place to stay?” 

The man shrugged his shoulders. Something in his slouched posture was familiar. “Running a little late, is all,” he said. 

“You’re more than a little late.” Wendy chanced a look at her watch. “It’s seven o’ clock.” 

“Is it really? Damn. I couldn’t keep track of the type.” The man lifted his hands, as if in surrender. “Don’t got a phone.” 

Practically every civilian in America had a cellphone these days no matter how poor they were. Wendy immediately pegged this stranger as homeless. That, or he’d just gotten out of jail. She crossed her arms and took a step closer. “Do you have somewhere to be?” 

“Nope.” 

Wendy came to a stop in a cone of light dispensed by an overhanging floodlight. The wind picked up, whipping snow around her illuminated face. It was going to drop below zero tonight. Her conscious wouldn’t allow her to leave this guy alone and exposed to the elements, even if he was a creep. 

“Let me give you a ride,” she offered. “You must know someone. I can take you to a shelter, at least.” 

The guy didn’t answer. Wendy shivered, feeling oddly exposed. 

The shadows receded as he neared. He wore ratty jeans and a light jacket with its hood pulled over his head. He must’ve been freezing. Wendy noticed his hands were bright pink, and his face probably fared the same. But all she could see was a collection of facial piercings glinting in the light. 

“I think I know you,” he said. 

“I can assure you that you do not. I’ve only been in town for a few months.” She didn’t want him to know that she grew up here. “Come on, I’ll give you a ride. I want to get out of this weather and I bet you do too.” 

“Doesn’t bother me. I’m used to freezing my ass off.” 

“But you’ll get sick.”

“I’m pretty much immortal,” the man replied. 

Wendy stiffened. Her countenance firmed. “Listen, guy. I’m not going to stand here and argue with you all night. You can either come with me or I’ll call the cops and  _ they _ can pick you up.” 

“They wouldn’t be able to find me.” 

“Fine, then. Have it your way.” 

Wendy was about to turn back to her car when the man rushed forward. She shuffled back, wielding her tactical keychain, but the man stopped at the edge of the light and didn’t advance any further. She stared at him, less terrified than she should be, and waited. For something. 

“I know you,” the man repeated. He lifted his cold hands and lowered the hood of his jacket. “You know me too.” 

Wendy’s eyes widened. She dropped her keys in shock. The clothes, the piercings, the posture...of course. 

His face had changed, excavated and bony, studded with so much metal he could probably conduct electricity. Unblinking eyes - bright as ever, the same old piercing shade of blue - were partially covered by clumps of greasy blond hair. A congealed cut that hadn’t yet healed split his bottom lip open when he grinned, revealing a mouthful of crooked teeth. 

Stan and Kyle had told her he’d run into some trouble with the law after getting hooked on cat piss again. Wendy remembered him as a sweet, misunderstood boy unable to overcome the impossible odds stacked against him. He’d dropped out of high school and proceeded to fall off the face of the planet into rumored obscurity. If anyone was going to be stuck in South Park years after everyone else had jumped ship, it’d be him, but she hadn’t thought to keep an eye out, mostly because he’d never reappeared until now. 

“Seriously, Wendy? Not even a hello?” Kenny exhaled a puff of visible air and looked down at the ground. “Damn, girl. After all this time…” 

Wendy startled to attention at the sound of her name. “Sorry. It’s just - well.” She blinked. “What are you doing here?” 

Kenny’s frozen blue eyes snapped up. “Just got outta the loony bin.” He relaxed with another capricious smile and spread his arms. “Yup! They threw me in there last time I got snatched off the street. Judge said I was insane just cause I finally deigned to tell somebody the truth.” 

A creeping premonition snaked up Wendy’s spine. “And what was that?” 

Kenny flapped both hands. “Ehh, forget it. Nobody wants to hear it.” He abruptly straightened and looked around, rubbed his hands together and blew into his palms. “Cold as  _ dick _ out here.” 

He glanced at Wendy over his red knuckles. Wendy didn’t know what he wanted her to say. She didn’t know what she wanted to say, herself. It probably wasn’t smart to engage in more conversation, but Kenny was...well, he was Kenny. No circumstance could scrub away her initial opinion of him. 

She retrieved her keys, let them hang off her gloved fingers as they clinked in the frigid breeze. “My offer still stands, you know.” 

Kenny spat a loogie on the ground. “Got no place to be.”

“That can’t be true.”

“It is,” Kenny insisted. The crazed glint returned to his eyes and he brandished a righteous finger. “That’s the thing they don’t tell you! They lock you up, make you get clean, then throw you back out in the same situation you were in before. Over and over. It’s all a sham.” 

“I am well aware of the broken state our country’s healthcare system is in.” Wendy nodded at the building behind him. “I work over there. I see it every day.” 

Kenny paused, surprised at her empathy. He looked over his shoulder, then back again. “So you understand the kind of pickle I’m in.”

Wendy withheld an instinctual grin at his choice of words. “Yes, Kenny. It’s part of my job to help you get out of that pickle.” 

“I don’t want nobody’s professional help. Not even yours. It fucked me up worse than before.” 

“I don’t doubt that, but I can promise you that I am trying to fix these issues.” Wendy took another step forward. “Why don’t you tell me about it over a cup of coffee?” 

Kenny flinched backward. It reminded Wendy of her cat. The back and forth, the running away until a sufficient amount of trust had been established. Wendy won her cat’s trust with food. She hoped that Kenny could be similarly subdued. 

“I don’t know,” Kenny said. “I should probably - I should head out. It’s a bad idea if I stick around.” 

“You told me you don’t have anywhere to go,” she reminded him. 

A petulant scowl twisted Kenny’s bloody lip. “I’ll find someplace. I can sleep anywhere. Doesn’t matter. Rain or shine, outside or inside. I’ll sleep in a goddamn tar pit.” 

Wendy raised a placating hand. “Okay. That’s fine. Let’s just hang out for a little bit, alright? You need to warm up. We don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to.” 

Kenny gave her an ocular scan. “Thought you’d be off in some hipster-y haven with Stan and Kyle and the rest of ‘em.” 

“Shit happens,” Wendy shrugged. 

“Yeah,” Kenny said. “Shit happens.” 

They both fell quiet, watching each other. The wintery silence returned heavier than before, bringing with it a thin blanket of snow. Snot dribbled from Kenny’s nose down to the cut in his lip. 

Wendy pressed her key fob. The resultant beep echoed across the parking lot. “I’m leaving, whether or you come with me or not.”

She spun around and strode a brisk pace back to her car. Kenny’s plodding footsteps sounded behind her, and she smiled to herself. 

/ 

Kenny sat cagey and quiet in the passenger seat the whole ride, pressed tight against the cold window. Surprised by the temperamental shift in personality, Wendy trained her eyes on the road so as to not spook him by staring. She blasted the heat, more for his benefit than hers, and noticed his body slowly unwind in her peripheral vision as the car warmed up. 

“What’re you feeling?” she asked at a red light.

Kenny narrowed his eyes, tense once more. “The fuck kinda question is that?” 

She backtracked immediately. “Sorry!” A car honked behind them as the light flashed green, and she belatedly proceeded through the intersection. “I meant, what do you want to eat?” 

“Oh.” Kenny looked back out the window. “I don’t care.” 

“Okay…” Wendy circuited around the next left. Without thinking, she’d naturally taken the same route she did when on her way home. Shi Tpa Town loomed ahead, heralded by neon signs of beleaguered business fronts. 

Kenny noticed this, straightening in his seat. “My first meal out the can ain’t gonna be  _ City Wok _ .” 

Wendy smirked. “ _ No _ one should ever eat at City Wok.” 

The locale-specific jab caused Kenny to relax further. He sat up completely, scanned the street like he was riding a New York City taxi cab instead of Wendy’s shitty old sedan. “Been awhile,” he said. “Didn’t know there was so much shit out here.” 

“I felt the same way,” Wendy admitted. “Everything’s so different, but also not. It’s really weird.” 

“Yeah,” Kenny agreed. He glanced at her and she glanced back. Passing neon hues clung to his piercings in rainbow abstractions. “How long were you gone for?” he asked. 

Wendy looked back at the road ahead of them. “Four years. I finished my degree, then moved back home.” 

Kenny scoffed. “You shoulda stayed gone. Can’t get a ticket outta this shithole just to throw it away.” 

His voice carried tones of jealousy and bitterness. Wendy sympathized for him. She couldn’t imagine how it felt to watch all of your friends leave for greener pastures while you were stuck spiraling into the dark. 

“I didn’t plan on it. Like I said, shit happens.” 

“But what kind of shit?” Kenny asked. “What could ever be so bad you’d wanna come back  _ here _ ?” 

“It’s a long story. I don’t like talking about it.”

Wendy pulled into the parking lot of a twenty four hour diner. She cut the engine, turned. Clear blue eyes peered at her across the darkness. She failed to detect any judgement in them, just honest curiosity. His face had regained some color. 

“Wendy,” he said. “My life’s been one trainwreck after another. Whatever it is, I’ve either seen or done worse.” 

Paired with those words, his gaze was too much. Wendy looked away and opened the door. The overhead light bathed the car’s interior in yellow. “Let’s go inside.” 

Kenny unbuckled his seatbelt and stepped out. He lagged a couple steps behind Wendy as she traipsed inside. The diner was nearly empty, decorated in old style red, black, and white. A sign informed them that they could pick whichever table they wanted. 

“Let’s sit in the back,” Kenny muttered. 

Wendy chose a booth perpendicular to a window in the far corner. Kenny stepped ahead of her and sat down, his back to the wall, and watched the front door. 

She sat across from him, looked over her shoulder, but didn’t see anything. She jumped upon turning around - Kenny was staring at her with his weird look. 

He grabbed a sugar packet it, ripped it open, and spilled its contents on the placemat in front of him for no apparent reason. “Like to keep an eye on things,” he said. 

“It’s...good to have situational awareness,” Wendy assented. She pulled a menu out of the metal tongs next to the ketchup, mostly for appearance’s sake. “Don’t worry about the price. Order whatever you want.”

“Thanks,” Kenny grunted. He nabbed a menu of his own and slapped it open. Sugar puffed into the air and settled across the length of the table. “What d’you recommend?” 

Wendy eyed him closely. “I don’t come here that often.” 

“Huh.” Kenny pointed at a picture of a cheeseburger. “I’ll have that.” 

“Okay.” 

He pointed at a picture of fries, too. “And that.” His finger roved to a hot dog. “And that.” 

“That’s fine,” Wendy said. “Anything else?”

Kenny grinned up at her. “A giant fucking milkshake!” 

Wendy’s lips twitched. She folded her menu and returned it to its stand. 

Kenny did the same, then propped his chin in his hands and looked around. “This is weird.” 

“What is?”

He shrugged. “Being all out and about.” 

“Oh.” Wendy leaned back in her seat. “How long were you, um - in the loony bin, as you call it?” 

“‘Bout nine months.” 

“That’s a long time.” 

Kenny’s gaze returned. “They said I needed a lot of rehabilitation. I went in on a cheese charge. Came out with around fifteen diagnosis-es.” 

Wendy’s brow rose. “ _ Fifteen _ ?” 

“Uh-huh. You name it.” Kenny started counting on his fingers. “PTSD - from my childhood and all, or whatever - bipolar, drug addiction - which shouldn’t count, in my opinion - anxiety, depression, depersonalization, sex addiction, insomnia… They even said I got gender identity problems, cause I told ‘em I used to dress up like a girl half the time.” His palms dropped flat onto the table. “It’s whack.” 

Wendy suspected at least half of those attributions carried water. “That  _ is _ a lot,” was all she said.

Kenny snapped his fingers. “Oh yeah! There was one more. Something like custard syndrome.” 

“ _ Custard _ ? As in the dessert?” Wendy frowned. “I took lots of psych classes for my degree, but I don’t remember anything like that.” 

“It wasn’t actually custard,” Kenny said. “I can’t remember the actual word for it.” 

“What were the symptoms?”

“Uh, well.” Kenny pulled his hands into his lap and lowered his eyes. “I don’t wanna say.” 

“Kenny,” Wendy said. He looked up. “I’m a professional. I’ve worked in psych wards before. Whatever it is, I’ve seen worse.” 

Her callback did not go unnoticed. Kenny let out a heavy sigh and shrugged. “They said I’m delusional.” 

“I don’t think you’re delusional. If I did, I wouldn’t have let you into my car.” 

Kenny’s lips pursed. “It’s a long story.” 

She lifted her hands. “That’s all you had to say.” 

“The point is I’m crazy. Really, I am. I’m bonkers. I didn’t need a doctor to tell me that.” 

“You can’t be that crazy,” Wendy said. “You haven’t killed anybody, as far as I know. And you’re  _ alive _ . If you were totally insane you’d either be locked up for good, or dead.” 

Kenny’s expression dimmed. “I gotta piss.” 

He hastily rose out of the booth. Wendy watched him stalk off, wondering what it was she had said to make him leave. He was a bit of a loose cannon, but it wasn’t anything she couldn’t handle. If she was really worried about it she would’ve left him to the authorities. 

She pulled her phone out once she made sure he was gone and sent Stan a rapid text:  _ I am sitting at a restaurant with Kenny. He showed up at my work. Told me he just got out of the hospital. Will update later.  _

Her phone buzzed repeatedly in her pocket. A waitress ambled up to the booth. Wendy ordered two coffees and Kenny’s spread of food, then set her phone to do not disturb just as Kenny returned.

“Place is rank,” he huffed, dropping across from her. He noticed the coffees. “Waitress come by?” 

Wendy nodded. 

“Was she hot?” 

“Jesus, Kenny. I don’t know.” 

“C’mon,” Kenny goaded. He opened five sugar packets at once and poured them into his drink, which he stirred with his finger. “You got eyes. Tell me. Was she sexy?” 

“I don’t rate people based on their appearances alone.” 

“Explains why you’re with me.” Kenny wrapped his lips around his finger, sucked the coffee off of it. 

Wendy retained eye contact. “I’m with you because we were friends once.” 

Kenny removed his finger with a  _ pop _ . “Were,” he echoed. “Huh.” 

“We are friends,” she rectified. 

Kenny scoffed. “You don’t know jack shit about me. I could be a serial killer. I already told you I’m psychotic.” 

“You’re not psychotic. You’ve been dealt a bad hand, is all.” Kenny lifted his chin, waiting for her to continue. “A lot of my clients are just like you, and I still believe they are good people.” 

“Nobody’s just like me,” Kenny said. “Nobody in this damn world.” 

Wendy didn’t admit that he was probably correct. 

/ 

They left the diner about an hour later. Kenny scarfed down his food with such haste Wendy nearly wanted to start an investigation on the hospital’s nutritional practices, but then remembered Kenny used to eat like that when they were kids, too. Childhood food scarcity was a bitch. 

“Drop me off next to a bush,” he groaned once they were on the road again. “I’m gonna take a huge shit later.” 

“I’m not dropping you off at a  _ bush _ ,” Wendy said. “I’m not dropping you off anywhere.” 

“You’re kidnapping me?” 

“If by that you mean am I taking you back to my place, then yes.” 

“Pfft.” Kenny leaned forward so fast his seatbelt locked up. “You’re gonna let me into your  _ house _ ?” 

“My apartment,” Wendy corrected. “You need a shower and a good night of sleep, both of which you will not find on the streets.”

Kenny bounced back into his seat. “A shower? What d’you expect me to change into?” He gestured at himself. “This is all I got to my name, girl. The clothes on my back.” 

“I wish you’d stop calling me that,” Wendy sighed. She turned out of Shi Tpa Town and swung onto the highway. Mountains replaced buildings, and the jet black sky unfurled above.

Kenny slapped the dashboard. “Hey! Stop the car! Where the fuck are we going? You’re not taking me back to the can, are you?” 

“We’re going to a Wal-mart.” 

“What the fuck for?” 

“Clothes, since you’re so worried about it. Toiletries. You know, basic necessities.” Wendy shot him a reprimanding look. “Please sit still.” 

“I will not,” Kenny snapped, even as he settled down. “You’re really gonna waste all this cash on me?” 

“It’s not a waste.” 

“You shouldn’t buy me stuff. Food was one thing. This is different. I can’t pay you back, I’m broke.”

“I have plenty of money, I promise.” Wendy shrugged. “I don’t do much, so I don’t spend much.” 

“You don’t got nothing to do?” 

“I like to keep to myself.” 

“Man… You’ve changed.” 

“We all change, Kenny.” 

Kenny barked a laugh. “Not  _ that _ much. Y’see, most people got trajectories. That’s what the doctors told me. Myself, I am following my own trajectory. I was destined to become a pile of shit.” 

“You aren’t a pile of shit.” 

“Sure I am. And you’re supposed to be some hoity-toity bitch up in a nice house somewhere with six figures and a couple of kids. That’s your destiny, Wendy. At least, it was.” 

The steering wheel creaked in Wendy’s hands. She forced herself to calm down before speaking. “I don’t believe in destiny. I believe in making my own way through life.” 

“Well, you made it.” 

“Yes,” Wendy said, “I did.” 

She turned the radio on to drown out any more bullcrap from Kenny, but he seemed to have said his piece and rescinded into a contemplative silence. The mountains barrelled past like giant behemoths ensconcing them from the rest of the world, then broke apart as they entered the next town. Wal-mart stood on its edge, easily accessible to the influx of pilgrims looking for deals on produce and plasma TVs. 

“We’re here,” Wendy announced unnecessarily. The parking lot was moderately empty at this time of night, yet still considerably full. Wal-mart’s ecosystem was a never ending loop. Stan should study it. 

Kenny stuck close behind her once they were inside. Unforgiving fluorescent lights exposed his expressions for her to expertly decode. The Wal-mart wasn’t anything like the diner - there were more people here, more stimulus. More of everything. He scuttled around within a three foot radius, looking infinitely more ragged when set against the prepackaged goods and clean floors - like a swatted fly on porcelain. 

He didn’t offer his opinion on anything when prompted, so Wendy started dumping things into the cart at random. Shirts, pants, socks, a pack of boxer briefs, toothbrush, toothpaste - the whole nine yards. He only piped up as they neared the checkout lines, asking, “Can I get some smokes?” 

The question was imbued with so much desperation that Wendy obliged, picking a cash register which sat before a case of tobacco products. “And cigarettes, please,” she requested when the cashier finished ringing everything up. 

“What kind?” the cashier asked flatly. 

Wendy looked at Kenny, who peered at the cabinet like a kid in a candy store. “Marlboro reds. And a lighter.” 

Thirty seconds later Wendy was pushing the cart through the automatic doors. She belatedly realized Kenny had fallen behind and turned around. He was picking at the Marlboro carton’s plastic wrapper with the same intent a carrion bird attacked a carcass.

He finally opened it up and ran a cigarette under his nostrils, taking a huge whiff of tobacco. Wendy rolled her eyes and leaned her elbows against the cart in wait as Kenny lit up and took in a massive inhale. The cigarette sparked cherry red, its bright tip a flare in the night. He sucked down half the cigarette’s length, then released an orgasmic, smoky moan.

“Are you satisfied?” Wendy asked. 

“ _ Fuck _ yes,” Kenny sighed. He skipped ahead to catch up, and she resumed her trek. “This is even better than the milkshake!” 

“You aren’t smoking in the car.” 

“I’ll roll the windows down! Please? Oh, please, Wendy? Take pity!” 

“No. I’m putting my foot down on this one, Kenny.” 

“Agh!” Kenny flailed his arms and legs. “Fine, alright!” 

“You’re acting like a child. Help me load all this stuff.” 

Kenny threw the bags in the car without a care, then whisked the cart to a return ferry as Wendy warmed the car up. She tilted her rearview mirror when Kenny had been away for too long, saw him chainsmoking next to a row of snow-dusted carts, rolled her eyes, and lowered her window. 

“Kenny! Hurry up and get back in the fucking car!” 

“No,” Kenny yelled. “Just leave me here! I got all I need!” 

“Fucking -  _ fuck _ ,” Wendy grunted. She peeled out of the parking spot, backed up, and slammed her brakes.

Kenny dropped his cigarette into the snow as he scrambled to get out of the way. “God damn it! You fucking bitch!” He fell to his knees, trying to salvage the fallen cigarette, but it was no use, so he climbed into the car and buckled his seatbelt. “Jesus, girl, you coulda let me  _ finish _ \- “ 

Wendy whalloped the side of his head. “Shut the fuck up! And stop  _ calling _ me that, you asshole!” 

Kenny brought his hands up. “Okay! I’m sorry - uncle, uncle!” 

Wendy adjusted her rearview mirror, grasped the steering wheel, and sped out of the lot. 

“Listen,” she said once they were back on the highway. “Kenny, are you listening?” 

“I’m listening,” Kenny replied. 

“I want to help you out. But I’m not going to take any of your shit, you hear me? We need ground rules. Number one: don’t smoke in my car. Number two: if I’m asking you hurry up, after  _ buying _ you clothes and a toothbrush and fucking  _ white-tighties,  _ that means I want you to move your ass. Okay?” 

“I didn’t ask for your help, you know.” 

“You didn’t turn it down, either.”

“...Yeah, I know. I’m sorry, alright? I mean it.” Kenny thunked his temple against the window. “It’s just...hard.” 

Wendy glanced at him. “Being out of the hospital?” 

Kenny returned her glance. “Being with somebody who cares.” 

Wendy looked back at the road. They spent the rest of the drive home in silence, guarded by the mountains. 

/

Wendy felt like she’d been gone for a thousand years by the time they made it to her apartment building, which was one of many squat complexes arranged in a horseshoe around a central lane. 

Kenny grabbed all the bags from the back before she could say a word or grab one herself. She lead him inside. A yellow lightbulb flickered permanently above the stairs, casting schizophrenic shadows on the walls. Her door was the first on the left, inconspicuous as all the others. 

She inserted her key into the lock. A soft mew immediately greeted her arrival. 

Kenny kicked the door shut with his foot. “You have a cat?” 

Wendy squatted. An orange tabby sprinted out of the kitchen into her waiting arms. She lifted him up to show Kenny. “His name’s Clem. It’s short for Clementine, since he’s orange.”

Kenny’s face softened. He dropped the Wal-mart bags to the carpet and scratched between Clem’s ears. “Hey, buddy.” Clem rubbed against his fingers. 

Wendy grinned. “I think he likes you.” 

“He’s cute. Where’d you get him?”

“I found him in the parking lot. He just showed up one day.” 

“Huh.” Kenny sent her a look loaded with meaning she couldn’t define. “Kinda like me.” 

Clem wiggled out of her arms, saving her from coming up with a response. “Let me show you around.”

Her apartment was comprised of a bedroom, kitchenette, and living room. It was small; Wendy liked it that way. All of her furniture was secondhand. She didn’t have any decorations, just loads of books - some in cases, others piled against the wall - and lots of plants in varying sizes.

“I don’t have much space,” she said. “You’ll have to sleep on the couch.” 

“That’s okay.” Kenny had been unloading his clothes and folding them up on the coffee table. Finished with that task, Wendy took him into the bathroom so he could arrange his toiletries to his liking. 

Once that was done, she backed out into the alcove which separated the bathroom and bedroom from the rest of the apartment. “Take a shower. Relax. I’ve got a little food in the kitchen. It’s all healthy, so you probably won’t like it. Let me know what you want and I can pick it up tomorrow.” 

“No, don’t. It’s fine.” Kenny wrapped his arms around himself, looking small and demure in the tiny bathroom. He wouldn’t meet Wendy’s eyes. “Thanks. Seriously. This is…” He shook his head. “You’re crazy.” 

“I’m not crazy,” Wendy told him. “I just care about you.” 

He nodded, but didn’t say anything else, so she left him alone. 

Clem demanded to be fed. Wendy laid a bowl of food out for him, then stood in her kitchen and let the entire day wash over her. Kenny  _ fucking _ McCormick was in her shower. 

She grabbed her phone and went outside. The cold was worse than ever before, biting and sharp. She wiggled her nose, sniffing, then realized she was actually about to cry. Stan had called her about twenty times and left a barrage of panicked texts. Wendy wiped her eyes and held her phone to her ear. 

Stan answered on the first ring.“What the  _ fuck _ .” 

Wendy released a watery laugh. “I know.” 

“Hold on. I’m putting you on speaker.” There was a pause. “Okay. Kyle’s here.” 

“Hi, Kyle.” 

“Wendy! What the absolute shit is happening?

“It’s a long story…” 

She gave them a brief summary of the night’s events, not wanting to stay out too long lest Kenny deduced what she was doing. Stan and Kyle sat in silence for a long time after she finished.

Kyle spoke first. “So he’s okay?” 

“I wouldn’t say he’s okay,” Wendy said. “But he’s...alive.” 

“Fuck,” Stan hissed. “This is our fault. We gave up on him.” 

Kyle sighed. “Babe, you can’t think like that.”

“Kyle’s right,” Wendy said. “Kenny gave up on himself.” She remembered what he’d said before, added, “He followed his own trajectory. That doesn’t mean he can’t fix it now.” 

“What’re you gonna do?” Kyle asked. “Just let him live with you until he gets back on his feet?” 

“I suppose. What other choice do I have?” 

“We need to come down and see him,” Stan said. 

“No!” Wendy glanced up at her window, then lowered her voice. “No, Stan. Not yet. He’s already spooked as it is. That’d just be too much. Plus, I think he’s pissed at you guys.” 

“I’d be pissed at us too,” Kyle said. 

“I can handle this,” Wendy told them. “It’s like my life has been leading up to this moment. I don’t know why. But this is happening for a reason. I really believe that.” 

Stan and Kyle didn’t reply immediately, probably shocked at the earnesty of her words. 

“I have to go,” she said. “I don’t want him to catch me out here, and I’m freezing my tits off.”

“Keep us posted,” Stan said. “Please.” 

“I will. I love you guys.” 

“We love you too.” 

Wendy hung up. She balanced her phone against her lip and stood still, observed the blue mountains and the black sky beyond them as white snow collected on the ground. 

/

Clem wove between her legs when she went back inside, irked at her sudden absence. She prepared the couch with an extra pillow and blanket, then stood at the bathroom door. 

Just as she lifted her hand to knock she heard an awful noise. It was Kenny - sobbing, uncontrollably. 

Wendy dropped her hand and went into her bedroom. She’d talk to him tomorrow.  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter introduces a concept which i feel like should definitely be explored in fanfic. it's too perfect. hope you like it!

Wendy woke up to the absence of a cat’s weight on her back and a blaring alarm. She located her phone on the bedside table, clumsily switched it off. The resultant silence soothed her troubled mind; she hadn’t slept well, and was motivated to nuzzle back into her pillows for a few more minutes of half-conscious rest. But she had to go find Clem as well as check on the man sleeping on her couch, so she slipped out of bed and went into the living room. 

Winter couldn’t afford any morning light; the living room was shaded with a confusing brand of timeless twilight, broken by a soft yellow glow emanating from a tall lamp beside the empty couch. Kenny was cataloguing a bookcase next to the TV, an attentive Clem at his squatted heels. He’d put on a new set of clothes - an orange long-sleeved shirt Wendy had picked with great care, and a cheap pair of jeans. His spine poked through his back, a sign of chronic malnutrition. His shoulders were hunched in a tense line. 

“You’re up early,” she said.

She wondered if he had sensed her approach, because he wasn’t startled at all. He didn’t even turn around as he blithely replied, “I’m an insomniac, remember? A maniac, too.” 

His self-deprecating comments were getting redundant. Instead, Wendy focused on the way he ran his fingers over the paperback spines before him with a muted _ thump-thump-thump _. “Do you read much?” she asked.

“It was all I could do back in the can. And in jail.” 

Though Kenny had previously alluded to it, she frowned bemusedly, jarred by this admission. “You were arrested?” 

“Loads of times. Not for anything major.” 

His bones creaked as he rose into the lamp’s radius of light, fully visible. His hair fell in soft yellow tufts across his forehead and ears, and the cut on his lip had scabbed over. A lively pink tone replaced the sickly, jaundice-esque hue to his skin. It wasn’t a healthy color, but it wasn’t the color of imminent death. 

His blue eyes met her own. Wendy opened her mouth to speak, but Clem interrupted with a whine. Kenny leant down and picked the cat up, cradled him to his chest. 

Wendy smiled. “Did he sleep with you all night?” 

“Yeah.” Clem purred contentedly as Kenny pet his tummy with a finger. “He’s a good cat.” 

“I don’t know if I should be jealous or relieved.” 

Kenny stuck out his tongue, which was pierced with a metal barbell. “What can I say? I got a way with pussy.” 

And their exchange was ruined. Wendy rolled her eyes, pushed off the wall, and went into the kitchen. 

Kenny followed her and sat down at the kitchen’s small table, a giant shadow in the dark. “I was kidding,” he said. Clem curled up in his lap. 

Wendy clicked the light on and prepared a pot of coffee. “At least you didn’t call me _ girl _ again.”

He squinted. “Why’s that bug you so much?” 

“Because I am a grown woman.” Once the coffee maker started to drip she moved to open the fridge. “Want something to eat?” 

“I’m still full from dinner. I haven’t ate that much in...jeeze, I dunno. Years.” 

She set a carton of eggs down on the counter, paused. “Really?” 

“Really.” Kenny leaned his seat back on two legs and abruptly changed the topic of conversation: “Far be it from me to comment on your perfect life, but…” He looked around. “Your place is a little sparse.” 

“I had to sell a lot of stuff when I moved. I don’t need much, anyway. All I kept was my books.” She slopped whisked egg yolks into a frying pan, cursed when the stovetop wouldn’t turn on. “Damn it. This thing never works.” 

Kenny deposited a protesting Clem to the floor and walked over. He pulled his lighter out of his pocket, let the stovetop click for a few seconds until the smell of gasoline permeated the air, then flicked the wheel of the lighter. 

The burner erupted with a brief flame before simmering to its usual size. Wendy moved the frying pan atop the low fire, glanced at him appreciatively. “Thanks.”

He sat back down. “Shit was always falling apart at my house. I can jury-rig pretty much anything.” 

“Can you fix my shower drain?” 

“So _ that’s _ how you want me to pay you back? Become a live-in handyman?” 

“It wouldn’t hurt.” 

“That’s a very lucrative genre of porn, you know.” 

The coffee maker burbled with steam. It was an efficient model, probably the most expensive thing in her apartment besides the TV. Wendy poured a cup and thunked it onto the table in front of him. “Watch your mouth.” 

Kenny took the coffee in hand. “Sugar?” 

Wendy nodded at a canister beside the microwave. “Over there. There’s spoons in the drawer below it as well.” 

Kenny forewent a spoon - he poured sugar straight from the canister directly into his coffee, then stirred it with his finger like he had in the diner.

“Jesus,” Wendy grimaced. “How many cavities do you have?” 

“Zero.” Kenny shook his finger out. “Remember how I said I was immortal? I’m invincible, too.” 

“I thought you were joking.” 

“Nope.” 

Wendy slid her omelet onto a plate, grabbed another cup of coffee, and sat down to eat. She felt the weight of Kenny’s eyes from across the table. “Are you going to stare at me like that all the time?” she asked him. 

“You’re an interesting person to watch.” 

“How so?” 

“The way you move. It’s always with purpose. Most people trip all over themselves. Don’t know what they’re doing, where they’re going. But not you.” 

The unexpectedly serious answer gave her pause. “Do you always think about things like that?” 

“Like what?” 

“With such intensity,” she expounded. “You’ve got a very introspective view.” 

Kenny’s nascently healed lips twisted in a scowl. “Are you psychoanalyzing me?” 

“I’m just asking a question. You don’t have to be so defensive.” 

“People always wanna pick my brain…” He swirled his finger in his coffee again to disrupt the mountain of sugar which had no doubt settled to the bottom. “Lobotomize me.” 

“Well, lobotomy is illegal, so you’re safe.” 

Kenny wiped his hand on his jeans and looked up at her. “But what if? What if some crazy doctor wanted to slice my skull open? You’d stop him, right?” 

“Of course. Medical malpractice is a serious offense.” Wendy set her fork down. “Nothing...happened to you at the hospital, did it? Is there something you need to tell someone?” 

Kenny responded with a limerick: “The only thing I need to tell someone is something that I cannot tell.”

It sounded rehearsed, or like he’d written it down somewhere and thereby etched it into his memory. Wendy wondered how long he had been carrying this cryptic burden - if it was more recent like her own, or some hidden knowledge he lugged around his entire life. 

He got up from the table. “Refill?” 

Wendy picked up her fork and resumed eating. “Sure.” 

He grabbed the coffee pot, refilled both their drinks, and sat down again. Wendy was learning to ignore his staring. It wasn’t even a bad stare - he wasn’t checking her out, just...peering into her soul, or something. His eyes lit up whenever she accidentally met his perspicacious gaze, like she somehow activated a latent ability of his. As for what that ability entailed, she couldn’t even begin to guess. 

“I think about a lot of things a lot of the time,” he said, returning to their previous thread of conversation. “It’s kind of my thing.” 

“You were always very observant,” she reflected. “Sometimes I wondered what was in your head.”

Kenny chuckled. “Shit. You mean when we were, like, real little kids? I was probably thinking about titties.” His nostrils flared with a soft sigh, and he looked at her closely. “Or dick.” 

If he expected a reactionary response, he’d be disappointed. “That sounds like you.” 

“Does it? Do I sound like a queer?” 

“You sound like yourself,” Wendy stated. “Whether you’re queer or not has nothing to do with it.” 

“_ Yaaasss _,” Kenny intoned with a laugh. He settled down, stroking the rim of his coffee cup, but his acute gaze still peered out from his messy bangs. “What about you, huh?” 

“You want to know my sexuality?” 

“I wanna know what gets you wet.” 

Wendy should’ve stabbed him with her fork, but didn’t. “I’ve been with both men and women.” 

“And?” 

“And nothing,” she said. 

“No boyfriend or girlfriend,” Kenny clarified. 

“None at all.” 

He leaned away, tossed his arm over the back of his chair. “So that’s it? One and done? Old Stanny-boy must’ve done a _ number _ on you.” 

“The details of my relationship with Stan are none of your concern. Neither are any of my other partnerships or lack thereof.” 

“I’ve been with some freaks,” Kenny divulged. “Men, women, everything outside and in between. You ever fuck a tranny?” 

Wendy coughed around a bite of eggs. She cleared her throat and sucked down a gulp of coffee. “That - that wouldn’t be the term I’d use, but yes, I’ve been with various transgender people.” 

Kenny’s mouth flattened. “I’m not talking that. I mean real, honest-to-God trannies. They’re some of the craziest motherfuckers I know. Man, you wanna good time? You call up a tranny.” 

“I will keep that in mind.” 

“The doctors said I was _ transgender _.” 

Wendy looked at him. He stared back, uncowed. 

“I remember you telling me that yesterday,” she said. 

He expelled an acerbic snort. “Oh, they had a field day with it. Had me fill out this survey and everything. They got it into their heads that I want to be a woman. Some of the nurses even called me _ she _.” 

“They were probably trying to be inclusive…” 

Kenny’s grin disappeared, and he pounded the table with his fist. Coffee sloshed over the side of his cup. “No, they weren’t! They were trying to fit my life in their little boxes. I’m not transgender. That’s the difference. I’m just a tranny.” 

“Okay, okay - I believe you, Kenny.” 

His eyes sharpened at her exasperated empathy. “I don’t think you do. I think you’re just like them. I saw those books you got. All the theories and politics. You got more boxes than the doctors do, Wendy. You always have.” 

“I’m done having this conversation.”

She dropped her fork and scooted away from the table, got up to put her plate and mug in the sink. 

Kenny’s chair scraped across the floor, and a fist closed around her wrist. He wrenched her around to face him. She forced herself to remain calm, met his eyes with a level stare of her own, the sink digging into the small of her back. Clem jumped up from his spot on the floor and tried to intervene by pawing at their legs.

“I know what you’re doing,” she said. “You’re not going to scare me off.” 

Kenny licked his lips. “You’re scared. I can feel it.” His thumb pressed against her erratic pulse. “That, or you’re turned on.” 

“You don’t have to put on a big show.” For all intents and purposes, Kenny was a complete stranger she let into her home. But he was still _ Kenny _. Her wrist flexed in his hand, and he tightened his hold. “I won’t be intimidated by you.”

“I guess you won’t.” He released her wrist, cupped her thigh. She should’ve pushed him away, but didn’t. “No, not you. You’re different.”

He teased the inside of her thigh, knowing perfectly well what he was doing. If he really wanted to hurt or take advantage of her, he would pin her to the floor right now. But he was just teasing her, trying to make her uncomfortable. 

Everything he did, everything he said - it was all part of a calculated front, a smokescreen concocted by years’ worth of imprisonment and involuntary psychiatric treatments, Wendy realized as his face hardened. His helter-skelter guise fell to shrewd calculation, eyes boring into her own, searching for signs of weakness or fear that didn’t materialize. 

“I don’t get you,” he said. “I don’t get why you’re doing this.”

“Doing what?” 

“Helping a psycho like me out.”

She scoffed. “I know what real crazy is - and it’s not you, Kenny. I can see it in your eyes.” His grip on her thigh faltered; she grasped his wrist and pried his hand away - remembered the sound of him bawling in the bathroom. “_I’m_ not the one who’s scared. You are.” 

She knew her hypothesis rang true when Kenny sucked in a sharp inhale. He leapt back like she was a hot iron. His ass hit the table, sending his coffee cup shattering on the floor. Clem hissed at his feet. A stricken expression crossed his face and he booked it out of the kitchen. 

Wendy rushed after him. He was digging around the couch. She braced a hand on his knobby spine. “Kenny - “ 

He brushed her off. “I need a fucking _ smoke _.” 

“I’m sorry. Please - if you’re thinking about leaving, don’t. I shouldn’t have said that - “ 

His head whipped up with a swish of long, yellow hair. “I’m not leaving. All I said is I need a goddamn smoke.” He waved his pack of Marlboros in her face, then strode out of the apartment, slamming the door shut behind him.

Wendy plopped her butt on the couch and covered her face with her hands. Clem hopped into her lap and licked her arm. She sniffed and looked down. Satisfied that she was alright, Clem then meowed at the door. 

“Oh, I know,” Wendy sighed. “I like him too.” 

She busied herself by getting ready for work, but Kenny still hadn’t returned even after she took a shower, blow dried her hair, and put on makeup. She was tying her coat around her waist, about to go look for him herself, when he blustered back inside agitated and tracking in snow, his face and arms bright pink with cold.

She blinked, surprised at his abrupt return. “Hey… Are you alright?”

The capillaries in his eyes were blown wide, lancing watery shots of red across white. He tossed the pack of Marlboros on the coffee table, empty. 

“I need more cigarettes.”

/

Wendy forced another cup of coffee down his throat to warm him up, then bundled him in an insulated coat much thicker than his old jacket. She had partly expected to leave him at her apartment, alone for the day - the idea of it wasn’t as harrowing as it should’ve been - but it turned out he really did have an appointment at the clinic, which conveniently solved her dilemma. She suggested bringing reading material for the waiting room. He filched a random paperback, stuck it into the pocket of his coat, and off they went.

Kenny grew more comfortable in the car. He fiddled with the radio a bunch until finally settling on a classic rock station. Wendy didn’t care what music he played, as long as it saved them from holding a conversation. The strip mall parking lot was thankfully bereft of her coworkers when they arrived. She didn’t want to know what would happen to her if caught chauffeuring a potential client around. 

With no witnesses and time to kill, they sat for a moment. The parking lot was covered with a layer of snow crisscrossed by tire tracks. More would come within the next few days, after which it would be necessary to plow the snow into gray piles and throw pounds of salt in its place. The thought reminded Wendy of Kenny’s tattered sneakers.

He currently tapped a beat on the window beside him, resolutely silent as an Eagles tracked played over the air vents’ quiet thrum. She looked at his shoes, then at his stern expression. He had neither affirmed nor denied her claim that he wasn’t actually crazy, which was confirmation enough.

“Are you nervous?” she asked. 

Kenny pulled his hood up, crossed his arms, and slumped down into his seat. “Not with these sick new threads.” 

A subtle admission of guilt, Wendy noted. “You know, it wouldn’t kill you to apologize.” 

He turned away, the profile of his face obscured. “Sorry.” 

She pulled her keys out of the ignition and sighed. The radio quieted. Cold began to seep inside of the car. “You’re going to the clinic first, right?” 

“I don’t know. I guess.” Kenny sent her a side glance. “Will they be mad I missed yesterday?” 

“People do it all the time,” she told him. “Our clientele are not known for their punctuality.” 

He looked out the windshield and narrowed his eyes. “What’re they gonna do to me?” 

“They’re not going to _ do _ anything. You’ll fill out some forms and get a checkup, then meet with a psychiatrist. Do you have any paperwork from the hospital - or identification, at least?”

He ran his tongue across his split lip. “I don’t believe in keeping a paper trail.”

“Then you’ll have to wait for them to call the hospital,” she said. “They need your records.” 

“My record is a load of garbage,” he grunted. “What’s the point, anyway? What if I don’t go in?” 

“Employers probably won’t hire you without proof of treatment. Inpatient programs aren’t really worth much unless they’re followed up with an outpatient regimen.”

“I’m not signing up for no regime.” 

Wendy frowned. “That’s not what I said. Look, Kenny - you _ have _ to go in there.”

“_ Why _?” 

“Because if you don’t, I may as well have left you to freeze to death.” 

He leaned across the middle console. “I wish you would’ve,” he sneered, got out of the car before she could respond. 

/

Wendy spent the first half of her shift listening for signs of disruption from next door, worried that Kenny would kick up a storm and get hauled out of the clinic by security. But nothing of the sort occurred. It was a slow day altogether, in fact, which left her more time to ruminate.

Her coworkers and clients alike noticed she was in a foul mood, yet no one commented on it. Wendy supposed they thought it was finally time that her go-get-em attitude cracked - and it most certainly had. She wasn’t expecting Kenny to grovel at her feet in gratitude, but she’d at least hoped for less...aggression.

That being said, he was mentally unwell, but not _ disordered _. She’d seen no signs of intrinsic, cognitive neuroses in his speech patterns or behavior. Sure, he was a bit of an asshole, but she couldn’t blame him for becoming developmentally arrested after his life fell apart just as he was supposed to mature into a responsible, functioning adult. That didn’t mean he wasn’t functioning at all. 

It was obvious he had played into the hands of the health and justice systems after it became apparent they considered him nothing more than a lost cause. But Wendy’s training, dedication, and penchant for nosiness wouldn’t let her leave the situation at that. Something larger was at play, directly related to the mystery surrounding Kenny’s past. Something he could not, or would not, tell her. Something he had tried to tell someone before, then suffered for it. 

Due to the morning’s hectic events, she forgot to pack a lunch, and was about to grab a bite to eat - as well as food and cigarettes for Kenny - when her computer pinged with a late assignment notice. Like she had told Kenny, clients came in off schedule all the time, but Wendy didn’t have the patience to endure a postponed break today. 

She opened the notice, wanting to get the appointment over with as quickly as possible. Her irritation vanished when the client’s name popped on screen. 

/

The outreach center’s waiting room was sparsely decorated in clean colors. An idyllic jazz tune looped through a sound system bolted to the wall, and a similarly hinged TV broadcasted a local news segment, black and white subtitles rolling beneath the muted talking head. 

Freshly showered with brand new clothes, Kenny still stuck out like a sore thumb. Separated from the rest of the center’s patrons on the empty side of the room, he sat in a chair facing the building’s glass facade: legs outstretched, ankles crossed, paperback in hand. Unnoticed, Wendy watched him lick his thumb and turn a page, read a few paragraphs, look out the window, and repeat the process. Keeping an eye on things. 

He stiffened after a moment and looked over his shoulder. Their eyes met. His brow furrowed. 

Wendy spoke before he could utter a word: “Kenny McCormick?” 

His teeth snapped together, hidden by a mulish frown which quickly flashed into a cloying grin. He swept up from his chair and ambled across the room, gave Wendy a snarky salute. “Yes, ma’am.” 

She turned on her heel. “This way, please.” 

He followed her down the hall, scanned the perimeter for anyone within earshot. Assured that they were alone, he poked Wendy’s shoulder. “What’s going on? Why’re you bringing me back here? Everything went okay at the clinic, I promise.” His hand curled over her shoulder entirely, and he forced her to a halt. “Wendy, seriously - “ 

She shrugged him off. “I’m your _ caseworker _, Kenny.” 

He blinked. “You’re my what?” 

She sighed. “Follow me.” 

All the cubicles were partitioned by floor-to-ceiling walls for maximum privacy. Wendy ushered Kenny into her own, snapped the door shut, and lowered the blinds. She then smacked Kenny’s back, thrusting him into the vinyl chair in front of her desk, and sat down across from him.

He leant forward, elbows on his knees, the paperback wrung in his hands. She glanced at its cover, curious as to what he’d picked: _ Resistance, Rebellion, and Death _ by Albert Camus. 

“You’re a fan of Camus?” she asked incredulously. 

“I’m quite the intellectual, if you can believe it.” His voice lacked its characteristic mirth. “Listen, Wendy - “ 

“I can transfer you to someone else if you’d prefer,” she said. “It’d probably be for the best, considering...well, you know. I’m not supposed to show bias for one client over another. If they found out you’re staying with me - “ 

“You can’t fucking hand me off,” Kenny interjected, “I don’t care what the hell your idiot boss says.” She waited for him to go on. He huffed and looked down at the paperback, worried the scab on his lip. “This morning, when you said that all stuff - “ 

“Kenny, I’m sorry - “ 

He cut her off again. “Just shut up for a second!” 

She quieted. 

He lowered his eyes and fanned the paperback with his thumb. “You were right, okay? About everything. The only thing that’s driven me crazy is trying to tell people I’m _ not _ crazy. That’s why I’m crazy. Not because of the other bullshit they put on me.”

“That sounds very difficult,” Wendy murmured. 

“I won’t lie,” he continued, “the drug stuff is all real. You’ll see. Cheese, coke, meth, PCP, ketamine… Fuck, I was on heroin for a solid year. I’ve done it all.” 

“That can’t be.” Wendy had clients like that, and they looked like the living dead - which Kenny did not.

“I bounce back pretty quick,” he muttered. 

“But...the withdrawals, the side effects… You should be _ really _ sick. Nine months in the hospital can’t erase years of intense drug abuse.”

“Consider it a miracle.” 

“I don’t believe in miracles.” 

Kenny leaned back in his seat. “Do you believe me?” 

Wendy mirrored him. “I don’t know.” 

A disappointed glower contorted his face. “Fine, then.” He unzipped his coat and slapped a thick manilla folder onto her desk. “You can hear their side of the story, since you don’t want to know mine.” 

She ignored the folder. “I’m your caseworker. It’s my _ job _ to listen to you.” 

“Well I’m not in the mood to chat.” Kenny got up and held his hand out. “Can I have a few bucks? Copped that gas station across the street. This _ nicotine _ withdrawal is killing me.” 

“Please sit back down.” 

He remained standing and wiggled his fingers.

Wendy sighed. She opened a drawer and retrieved her wallet from her purse. “Here’s a twenty. Buy some food while you’re out.” 

Kenny snatched the bill out of her hand. “Aw. Thanks, mommy.” 

A strangled noise clawed out of her throat. She caught his wrist in a vice and yanked him forward. “Don’t _ ever _ call me that. I am not your mother. I am no one’s mother.” 

“Alright, Jesus!” 

Kenny tore his arm away and stumbled backwards, analyzing her with a perturbed look. His fumbled blindly for the doorknob and slipped out of the room. Wendy released a breath she didn’t know she was holding, then focused on the folder in front of her. 

/

She was met with a daunting history of legal and psychological mishaps. Countless incarcerations, petty crimes, drug charges, rehab stints...it went on and on, beginning at the ripe age of fifteen. 

The very first piece of paper recounted a DCFS investigation into the McCormick household and the subsequent separation of Kenny and his siblings. Kevin was a legal adult by then, as well as a heroin addict; he died in an overdose only two months after the report had been filed. Karen had been chartered to a seemingly well-to-do family in Boulder, whereas Kenny was simply too old to be a viable choice for adoption. With no remaining family, money, or high school education, Kenny ran away from his foster home, and given his age no one went after him. The professional in Wendy smarted at that, but she moved on.

Preliminary documents described standard juvenile delinquency - vandalism, trespassing, general misconduct, et cetera. The further Wendy advanced through the report, however, the more serious Kenny’s offenses became. 

Eventually his aforementioned drug possessions cropped up. It seemed that he’d get hooked on one substance, get caught, then pick up another, stronger substance, before plateauing at heroin just like his older brother. The phase ended with an extended stay at rehab, whereupon it was recommended that he be enrolled in an in-depth psychiatric program. He was shuttled off to Hell’s Pass and put under strict suicide watch for reasons unspecified.

The psychiatric record stated that he exhibited volatile mannerisms, spoke crudely, harassed medical staff, and resisted treatment. He was diagnosed with several disorders and prescribed a cocktail of medication. The tone changed halfway through the report: Kenny started complying with the doctors’ orders, took his medicine, and participated in therapy - most likely hamming it up just to get outside. He was discharged soon after the behavioral reform, due to a lack of hospital funds rather than an assurance that he was cured. The time of his discharge read yesterday’s date. 

The strangest thing was that the entirety of his record was littered with gaps of unaccounted time. Some lasted weeks, others months, until a new legal or medical charge surfaced out of the blue. Wendy marked each time jump with a sticky note, then reviewed them all over again. After every gap, Kenny was given a perfect bill of health - he showed no outward signs of injury or past addiction. 

Wendy then matched his arrests with the time jumps. His mugshots varied greatly - starting with a relatively fresh face which steadily declined to the countenance of a stereotypical drug addict, before instantly reverting to the appearance of a generally healthy man. Tattoos and piercings appeared then disappeared as well. All of it was verifiably impossible - you couldn’t just get a new body every three months, but that was how it looked. No one had ever taken note of the phenomenon, either.

Rankled by the unexplainable anomaly, Wendy shelved her concerns and began wicking more pertinent information on her client. She finally returned to the psychiatric report and closely scanned his list of diagnoses: anxiety, depersonalization, gender identity disorder, insomnia, schizoaffective disorder, manic depression, PTSD, sex addiction… Every label Kenny had said at the diner was there, if misconstrued by himself. 

Wendy remembered his mention of a “custard” syndrome. She got to the bottom of the list and found the term was actually “Cotard delusion.” Unaware of its symptoms, she leaned closer to the page and read: 

_ Cotard delusion. A rare psychiatric disorder in which the individual believes that he/she is dead or undying. Generally accompanied by a disassociation towards the physical body and/or reality itself, individuals may also persist that they are invincible or immortal. _

/ 

It was well past her usual lunch hour by the time Wendy finished with the report, but she didn’t have any appetite, too overwhelmed, confused and, quite frankly, terrified by what she had learned. She needed to find Kenny and interrogate him, which she suspected would take the rest of the day rather than the sixty minutes allocated for her break. She prattled off a generic family emergency excuse to her boss, who let her go without concern; never calling in sick or asking for an extra day off had finally provided its intended leniency.

She copied portions of Kenny’s report with pen and paper. It was definitely an illegal thing to do, and she definitely didn’t care. She shoved the stack of handwritten notes into her purse, locked her cubicle up, and ran out of the building right to her car, prepared to hunt all over town for her - presumably wayward - client. 

“Yo, Wendy!” 

Her keys flew out of her hands and she jumped about fifteen feet into the air. “Jesus - fucking hell!” 

Kenny ambled forward from the same perch against the same pillar she had found him last night. He held the anthology of Camus essays in his hand, using a finger as a bookmark. “What’s the hurry?” 

“Nothing - just - “ She heaved a giant lungful of frigid oxygen, waited until her heart rate equalized. “You _ scared _me.” 

A cigarette between his lips bobbed with his non-committal answer. “About time.” He picked her keys up off the ground, jangled them. “I think you dropped something.” 

Wendy grasped her keys but didn’t let go, their joined hands an immovable bridge between them. A ribbon of smoke curled around Kenny’s face, disappeared over the top of his head. Wendy catalogued his piercings, the state of his pores, his pockmarked scars, mentally comparing them to his previous visages photocopied in grainy monochrome. 

“How long?” she asked. 

“Huh?” 

“How _ long _,” she repeated. “How long have you had” - she waved her other hand - “this body?” 

A lump of ash fell off Kenny’s cigarette. He retracted his hand from hers and plucked it out of his mouth, stared at her blankly. Wendy knew, now, what she’d seen all along in his ice chip eyes: an otherworldly consciousness, an intelligence that bespoke the ultimate truth of reality itself. 

Those eyes turned to the identically blue and bottomless sky above. “You finally figured it out. To be honest, I was starting to worry you wouldn’t.”

“It’s impossible,” Wendy insisted. “But - but - your health records, your mugshots - I _ saw _ the difference! And the custard syndrome, as you so called it? It’s Cotard’s delusion: the belief that you’re…” 

Kenny looked back at her. “We should talk about this someplace else.” 

“My boss let me have the day off.” Wendy unlocked her car, prodded Kenny’s side. “Get in.” 

“Hmmm.” Kenny flicked his cigarette. “Can I smoke?” 

Wendy’s mouth fell agape. “Are you serious? Yes! Smoke like a fucking chimney if you want - I don’t care! Let’s _ go _ .”  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're wondering why everybody smokes so damn much it's cause i'm an ex-smoker living through them vicariously.

Wendy blasted through Shi Tpa Town at approximately fifteen miles over the speed limit. Huge gusts of wind were sucked in by Kenny’s open window, which tossed his cigarette smoke back into the car and ruffled their hair. She felt rather than saw him give her cautious looks every now and then, but, beyond a few screeching turns and harsh stops, they lurched in front of her building with the vehicle - and themselves - still in one piece. 

She clamored out of the car and sprinted to her building’s front door, like she was running away from something all the while knowing it was impossible to out pace. She turned to find Kenny lagging behind at a leisurely jaunt up the walkway, pursed her lips with impatience and stomped her foot. “Come _ on _!” 

He gestured with his cigarette. “I’m not done.” 

She wrenched the door open. “You can smoke inside!” 

“Seriously? Sweet! Hey - wait up - “ 

She ignored his plea, took the stairs two at a time, and barrelled into her apartment, jolting Clem from his catnap on the couch. He meowed in protest at the rude awakening, slunk down to the floor and pawed her shoe. She shook him off with a downward sneer. “Leave me alone, Clem!” 

Forced into a sprint to catch up, Kenny burst through the door and skidded to a comedic stop. He lifted his hands in a placating manner. “Whoa, now. Don’t be mean to Clem, dude.” 

Wendy sighed and gave the cat a cursory pat on the head. Clem hopscotched over her feet towards Kenny as she proceeded to stride across the living room before making an abrupt stop to take her coat off with shaking hands. She tossed it in a random direction, then went into the kitchen, drank an entire glass of tap water, and braced her palms on the sink. 

The hairs on the nape of her neck stood up as Kenny approached. He reached around to snub his cigarette in the drain, remained close by her side once it had finished smouldering. 

Wendy kept her eyes trained on the crumpled cigarette, but Kenny nonetheless butted into her field of peripheral vision, his face half obscured by locks of black hair fallen from behind her ear. “Hey, it’s okay,” he said, whisper-soft so as not to shatter the kitchen’s resolute silence. “Calm down, girl.” 

Rather than getting upset, Wendy found the petname comforting. Not said in jest, it had gained a new tone appropriate to the recent insight she had gained. There was already a minimal amount of intimacy in taking an old colleague off the streets. To find out that his mental breakdown was precipitated not by drug addiction, but by his own recurrent deaths… Wendy didn’t know what to think. She felt like they were the only two people in the world, like the rest of humanity had sunk below their level of cognitive perception. What do you even do with this information? Should she call the president? Or a priest? 

A watery giggle broke free from her trembling lips. Kenny’s face furrowed with brief concern. The fact that he had enough wherewithal to worry about _ her _ mental well being brought on another delirious laugh. “You’re - you’re _ immortal _,” she said. “Right?” 

“Er, well… That depends on your definition.” 

She gave him a flat look. “You can’t die.” 

“I die all the time,” he said. “I just always come back to life.” 

She wavered on her feet. “I - I need to sit down.”

Kenny caught her by the elbow and gently lowered her into a chair beside the table. “Easy does it,” he encouraged, not removing his hands until he was sure she wouldn’t drop to the floor. 

Hit with another epiphany all over again, she stared at the window above the sink. The kitchen was strewn with gray, unsympathetic light due to recent cloud cover which had suffocated the sun on their way home. It didn’t feel like the early afternoon. It didn’t feel like they were on planet Earth. The apartment was a bunker, a bomb shelter, a tomb devoid of color, time, space, or meaning.

The sound of Kenny placing his book next to her fisted hands broke Wendy’s thoughts. She smoothed her fingers flat on the table and glanced up at him, unable to speak. 

“Want some coffee?” he asked. 

He didn’t wait for an answer, electing to brew a pot whether she wanted one or not. She watched him mosey around: slapping a coffee filter into its receptacle, dumping an exorbitant of grounds, filling the pot with water just before it overflowed... His haphazard methods let her know that she wasn’t the only one freaking out, which was reassuring. It also brought her back to her senses. Kenny was upset. Wendy needed to be present. Despite the craziness of the situation, her mind still believed that she could fix this, and jumped into its usual mode of reparatory conduct. 

He poured two cups, brought them to the table with the canister of sugar and a small bowl. Wendy grasped one of the coffees between her palms, felt the warmth diffuse through her skin. Kenny filled his own coffee with sugar then lit another cigarette. He tossed the lighter down; it slid along the table and rammed to a stop against his book, the muted thump sounding like a death toll. 

“So,” he said after taking a long drag. He pinched the cigarette between his forefingers so that when he folded his fists under his nose it was well within reach of his split lip. “I bet you got some questions for me.” 

Wendy asked him something neither of them could’ve predicted: “Can I bum a smoke?” 

His eyebrows shot into his forehead. “Wendy. Cancer can’t kill me. But it’ll sure as shit kill you.” 

“Kenny,” she parrotted back. “My understanding of life and death is gone forever. All I want is a single cigarette. I bought them, anyway.” 

He sighed and pushed the pack of Marlboros towards her. “Have you even smoked before?” 

“In college,” she said, deftly swiping the carton into her hand. She instantly choked on the deluge of smoke that funneled into her esophagus. “It didn’t last long.”

“Take a drink,” Kenny suggested. “Nothing’s better than a cigarette and coffee.” 

Wendy followed his advice. The warm beverage soothed her throat. She wiped her nose and took another drag, released a smoother exhale. “Can you open the window, please?” 

They sat together in the cold silence, chairs creaking as they shifted and sighed. The gray light swamped their cigarette smoke, everything billowing out the window save for a lingering odor. 

Kenny looked at her differently now, with less urgency. Wendy wondered if he’d been gauging her before, watching for a moment of realization. He was dropping hints this whole time - a trail of breadcrumbs for her to sniff out. 

She looked away and tapped her cigarette on the edge of the small bowl, now repurposed into an improvised ashtray. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Can I ask _ you _ something?” 

“Sure.” 

Kenny had already finished his first cigarette and currently relit another. His eyes appraised her through the incipient cloud of smoke exhaled from the corner of his mouth. “How the hell did you notice what nobody else has before?” 

That was a great question. The perfect question. It pertained only to logic and procedure. Wendy’s brain latched onto it, bringing up the parallels she'd found in his report. “It was easy once I saw all the evidence. Your mug shots, your diagnosis, your health records…” She trailed off with a shrug.

Kenny wasn’t impressed by her deduction. “You mean the horseshit stories about me people made up to explain what they couldn’t accept.”

“If you want to put it that way.” 

“Huh.” He clicked his tongue. “Okay.” 

Her brow furrowed. “What?” 

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I never thought someone would actually…put all the pieces together.” 

“People see what they want to see,” Wendy said. “They forego a discerning mind in order to protect their ideas of what is and isn’t.” 

“What about you?” Kenny asked. “I remember you used to be pretty set on shit like that.” 

A loaded statement, requesting one confession for another. It was only fair, but Wendy hadn’t intended to share the details of her premature midlife crisis when she spotted Kenny across the empty parking lot last night. She snuffed out her smoke and scratched the corner of her eye, vying for false nonchalance to calm the nervousness sparking through her veins. “I’ll need another cigarette before I can say anything about that,” she quipped, half-facetious. 

Kenny jerked his chin. “Take one. You bought em.” 

She lifted an eyebrow. “This pack will be out in half an hour.” 

“Nah. Don’t worry about it.” He shrugged. “I didn’t buy any food earlier, you know. So, we’re good.” 

She lit another and directed a puff of smoke at his face. “You’re terrible.” 

“I’m allowed to be terrible,” he said. “I can afford to be terrible.” 

The implication of his statement steered the conversation back into a serious direction. “That doesn’t mean you _ have _ to be,” she said.

“Never saw a reason otherwise. Till now, I guess.” 

“What do you mean?” 

He brushed his bangs off his forehead to reveal the full brunt of his electric stare. “You.” 

“But...I only just found you last night.”

His responding grin didn’t meet his eyes. “And look how far we’ve come.”

“So, what? What now?” 

“I dunno.” 

She ashed her cigarette, displeased by his answer. He placed his hand over her wrist, unmindful of the simmering heat which singed the faint hair on his knuckles, and leaned across the table, arresting her with his blue eyes. “You’re the first person who’s ever taken me seriously,” he told her. “Not just in the past nine months, or ten years, or whatever. I mean my entire goddamn life.” 

Unable to procure an appropriate response, Wendy sucked one last drag before smashing her cigarette out early. Her throat hurt. She didn’t really want to smoke. She just needed something to distract her, but nothing in the world could distract her from this. 

Kenny slid his hand backward and laid it still on the table between them. Waiting for something. Validation, maybe. 

She talked to his torn cuticles rather than his face. “I need to know. How...all of this started. How it all works.” 

“I don’t know how it works, either,” he replied. “Sorry.”

“Then tell me how it feels,” she said. “Tell me anything. Tell me something.” 

“I can tell you everything, but.” Kenny picked his coffee up. “Let’s go to the couch. Our asses are gonna fall off in these chairs, if we stay sitting here.” 

They went into the living room and sat facing one another on either end of the sofa, their coffees placed on the aptly-named table. Wendy folded her hair behind her ears and waited as Kenny balanced the ashtray on his bent knee. He coughed into his shoulder, then pursed his lips, staring at the loose fibers on the couch cushion. 

“If this is too hard...,” Wendy began. 

His eyes flicked up. “No, no. I need to do this. If you’ll let me.” 

She nodded. “I’m listening.” 

“It’s just a lot,” he sighed. “Like…goddamn.”

“Well, what did you tell the doctors?”

“Nothing but the basics. They wouldn’t let me get specific. Said it fed into the delusion.”

“That’s a valid psychiatric precaution,” she allowed. “But I’m no psychiatrist, Kenny.” 

He raised his brow in an unhumorous uptick whilst bringing his cigarette to his lips. “No, you’re just my caseworker. Right?” 

“I’m your friend.” 

His nostrils flared with smoke. “Don’t got many of those left.” 

“Neither do I,” she said. 

“What about Stan?” 

Since they were going full disclosure, the prompt wasn’t very jarring. Still, Wendy tucked her legs to her chest, a defensive reflex. “Oh, he’s a sweetheart, but he’s busy with school. And with Kyle.” Kenny grunted at the mention of his old best friends being romantically involved, but didn’t comment, so she continued, “I guess our trajectories have been off for awhile. Probably forever, if I’m being honest. He’s there for me when I really need him, but besides that... I don’t know. It’s complicated.” 

“Yeah,” Kenny said. “He was always too good for you.” 

Wendy bristled. Not so much at the dig at Stan, but at the indication she’d willingly put up with somebody else’s bullshit or so long. “That’s not true. His priorities are different than mine. But it wasn’t always like that. Not at the start.”

“That don’t mean he needed to string you along. Like - we all knew he was a queer ever since he cried about baby cows. And he knew it, too.” 

“The past is the past,” Wendy said. 

“And what’s on the other side? He got a boyfriend. You got jack shit.” Kenny snorted. “Jesus Christ, girl. You aren’t even dating anymore, and you’re still making excuses for him.” 

“I guess it’s a habit.” 

“I’ll say.” 

She put her chin on her knees and narrowed her eyes. “What about you? I lost my friends. But you let them go voluntarily.” 

“Damn! In for the kill,” Kenny laughed. 

“I’m not trying to come at you,” she clarified. 

“It’s cool. I respect that.” He flapped a hand in the air. “It was about trajectories, you know.” His hand took a nosedive, then smashed into the couch. “I was going rock bottom. Didn’t think anybody deserved to see that. So I split.” He shrugged. “They woulda split, anyway. I just did it first.” 

“To save yourself from the pain,” Wendy supposed. 

“Sure, if you wanna get all psychological about it.” 

“I’m not. I’m being very literal.” 

“Sounds like a metaphor to me. I’m done with that stuff. Analogies, analyzing shit, talking all mixed up. I say it how it is. So…” Kenny tossed his head back. “What? You saying I’m an asshole?” 

“I’m not saying you’re not an asshole,” Wendy said. “But I know it must’ve been tough, at the time - “ 

“You saw that DCFS crap in my biography, huh?” he cut off. 

“I _ saw _ you when we were still in high school,” she countered, remembering the sad boy who slowly drew inward, whose absence haunted the halls all the way to graduation. “Just because _ you _ thought no one was paying attention doesn’t mean it’s true. People cared about you, Kenny. And you just up and left.” Wendy unfolded her legs and leaned closer. “You could’ve gotten help.” 

Kenny mirrored her with a scowl, their foreheads almost touching. “No, I couldn’t. I’m not just talking about the always-never-dead thing. I’m talking everything. I got kicked outta my house. My brother OD’ed. My sister…” He slumped backward and took a drag off his cigarette. “My sister got taken away from me. They gave her to some hippie quacks in Boulder. The fuck was I supposed to do after all that? Show up at Stan or Kyle’s doorstep and beg for mercy?” 

“Yes,” Wendy said. “They would’ve taken you in.” 

“Then what? Crash for a couple years till they went off to college and left me behind?” Kenny shook his head. “You don’t get it. What happened to me was inevitable. I’m cursed.” 

His latter claim wasn’t hyperbole, or symbolic; he didn’t talk like that. She couldn’t refute him, and he knew it. He smashed his cigarette into the bowl on his knee and immediately stuck another between his teeth. By now a thin veil of smoke sat over their heads, rank and oppressive. 

Clem paced the length of the couch, meowing his discontent at the smoke and the tension between the two humans. Kenny patted his leg. “C’mere, boy-o,” he muttered. Clem obligingly hopped into his lap and pawed his chest, ears curiously pulled back. “We’re just a couple-a strays, huh?” Kenny asked him. He looked up at Wendy. “That’s why you like me so much.” 

She grabbed her coffee and washed the taste of tobacco out of her throat, then lowered the cup to her thigh. “Forget it,” she said. “You’re right. I don’t know what I’m talking about.” 

“I didn’t say that. You just can’t see the bigger picture. You think everything’s fixable.” 

Wendy gave him a bitter grin. “No, I don’t. Not anymore.” 

Kenny’s eyes flashed. He set the ashtray on the coffee table, left his cigarette to simmer, and settled deeper into the couch, giving her his full attention. Clem approved of this new position and laid against his chest, purring. “Tell me about it,” Kenny prompted. He stretched his leg along the edge of the couch, tapped Wendy’s hip with his foot. “C’mon. You know all about me. I don’t know anything about you. I ain’t talking anymore unless you fess up.” 

Wendy finished the rest of her coffee, stalling. She put the empty cup aside and braced her elbow on the back of the couch, folded her hand against her neck. “It seems...inconsequential, now,” she admitted. “Compared to what you’ve been through.” 

Kenny rolled his eyes. “Oh, shut the fuck up. Whatever happened must’ve been huge, to break a girl like you.” 

Wendy dug her nails into her neck. “I’m not broken.”

“Anybody who’s still in this town’s broken,” he said. “It don’t matter if you never left, or left and came back. It’s all a big trap. And you fell right in.” He nodded at a stack of books piled against the opposite wall. “Talking big about those dreams of yours. You coulda been something. A fucking academic. What the hell went down?” His countenance dimmed when she didn’t immediately reply. “Did somebody hurt you?” 

“No! God, no.” Wendy waved her hands to dispel his murderous suspicion. “Nothing like that.” She dropped her hands into her lap, as well as her gaze. “I… I had an abortion.” 

She looked up to find Kenny staring at her blank-faced, his lips parted. Eye contact spurred him to respond. “Was it...one of your not-boyfriends?” he asked. 

“Something like that,” she said. “I went through this phase where I fucked pretty much everyone on sight.” 

He smirked. “I’m still in that phase, myself.”

“It was stupid,” she continued, unaffected by his lighthearted joke. “I was lonely.” 

His face fell, though his tone remained lackadaisical. “It’s not stupid to be lonely. Take it from me - I’m the loneliest motherfucker alive.” He pursed his lips and scooted down an inch, his leg folding. “Do you mind, if…?” 

Unsure of what he wanted, Wendy nodded. 

Kenny sat up. He gently placed Clem to the side, then shuffled down the couch till he was almost in Wendy’s lap. She shifted to make room. He sat next to her, their hips pressed together, with an arm over her shoulder. 

Wendy leaned into his side, an automatic search for comfort she wasn’t aware of until it happened. He smelled like cigarettes, sweat, and cold snow, although that might have been from the chill still seeping into the apartment through the kitchen’s open window. His coat was rough against her cheek, but she didn’t mind. She remembered him being a tactile person before his disappearance - slapping people’s backs, freely offering fist bumps and high fives - always looking for a connection, just like her, though she had never openly sought one out, unlike him. And now they were stuck in their hometown at the end of diverted trajectories with diametrically opposed origins. 

Kenny jostled his shoulder, which in turn jostled her head. “Tell me about it,” he said. “I’m a fucking priest, alright? Confess.”

Wendy let out a shaky breath. She kept her eyes trained on the floor as Kenny’s bored into her angled profile. “I thought we were talking about _ you _.” 

“We got all night to talk about me. It’s gonna take that long to talk about it. We’re on a detour. If you don’t say it now, you’ll never tell me. This is it.” 

“I don’t like ultimatums,” she muttered. 

“Well, tough shit. Life’s one big ultimatum.” He paused, took in a deep breath. “You got an abortion, okay. No offense, but - I thought that’d be, like...easy, for you. All pro-choice and everything.” 

“I thought so too,” she admitted. “But it wasn’t. It sucked.” 

“Did it hurt?” 

“After the fact,” she said. “All I did was take a pill, but it felt like I was having the worst period of my life. Stan came up to Denver for a week to help me out. We mostly watched TV. I slept a lot.”

“That was nice of him,” Kenny acquiesced. 

“We talked a little bit. About us, and how we broke up. It was good to get some closure.” 

“But?” 

“But he left. And I was alone again.” Wendy glanced upward. Kenny’s gaze cut right through her, so she looked at their mottled reflections in the television screen instead. She appeared meek and small curled into his side, a shadowy second self, her subconscious come to life. “It all happened right after graduation,” she told her reflection. “I was supposed to be moving across the country, find a job, start my life. But I didn’t have it in me anymore.” She swallowed and averted her eyes to the floor, unable to face even herself. “I don’t want to say I killed my baby. I don’t believe that. It was just a bundle of cells. That’s what they told me. But it _ could _ have been my baby if I had kept it.” 

Kenny hummed. He didn’t say anything for a long while. When he did speak, it wasn’t with a moral judgement or another one of his strange platitudes, but a simple inquiry: “Do you even want kids?” 

She blinked, processing his question. “Not really. I think about it, though. What could have been. I’d be halfway through my pregnancy right now.” 

“What about adoption?”

“Oh, Jesus,” she sighed. “I know how bad foster care is. I didn’t want to put a child through that.” 

“Damn straight,” Kenny nodded. “Listen, Wendy. Hey.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Are you listening?” 

She lifted her head, met his eyes. “I’m listening.” 

“You made a good call,” he told her. “It was the right choice. You don’t have to feel guilty, okay? Don’t feel bad about it.” 

“I don’t feel guilty,” she said. Kenny’s eyes held her in place, compelled her to push on. “I know I did the right thing. I just feel...empty. I’ve always felt that way. I thought if I moved away, went to school, had a lot of sex, something would happen. Maybe I would’ve eventually found what I was looking for, but - after all that I just felt worse. I wanted something simple. Something predictable. So I came back home.” 

“That’s where you went wrong,” Kenny said, his stare unwavering. “Nowhere’s simple. Least of all South Park.” 

“It’s familiar, though.” 

“That’s wrong too. This place is different from when we were kids. It’s all watered down. You seen it. Everybody’s gone, and a bunch of bullshit took their place. There’s nothing left.” 

Wendy huffed a sigh. “Then I don’t know why I came back. Nostalgia, maybe. Is that what you want me to say?” 

“I just want you to say what you really think.” 

“I think I gave up.” She disengaged from Kenny’s side and jabbed his chest, her voice rising. “I quit - just like you!”

“There it is!” Kenny clapped Wendy’s hand in both of his own and began stroking her knuckles. “C’mon, girl, lay it on me! What else?” 

Wendy tried pulling out of his grasp, but he only held on tighter, kept repeating the same command. “I couldn’t find anybody,” she snapped. “I looked so hard and all I got was a dead baby.”

“Yeah, you did,” he goaded. 

She stopped resisting and braced her other hand on his shoulder, leaned over him as she spouted unfettered confessions. “I feel like shit all the time. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know why I came back. My job sucks. I hate the people I work with. I went into the real world and it kicked me in the ass. I’m hiding,” she admitted. “I’m hiding from everybody.” 

“Who?” Kenny asked. “Who’re you hiding from?” 

“Everybody everywhere.”

“Why?” 

She slapped his shoulder. “Because! Because - I fucked up! I’m a fucking mess.”

“Because you had an abortion?” 

“No!” Wendy finally tore her hand away and covered her face. “I don’t know! I don’t know, Kenny, okay? I don’t know why.”

“Hey! Hey, now.” Kenny gently lowered her hands. She stared down at him with gritted teeth. “You’re a good person who got dealt a bad hand. That ain’t your fault.” He smirked when her eyes narrowed. “Doesn’t sound so reassuring when you hear it yourself, huh?” 

She dropped back onto the couch and crossed her arms. “It’s _ stupid _. I’m sorry I tried giving you such shitty advice.” 

Kenny turned, propped his jaw in his hand. “Y’know what I think? I think everything happens for a reason. I think we do shit for no reason. But in the end there’s really a reason, except we don’t know yet what that reason is.” 

Wendy scoffed. “Like, as in God? You’re telling me God’s real?” 

“Sure, God’s real.”

Her face fell. “What - have you _ seen _ him?” 

“Seen enough,” was Kenny’s reply. “God’s real, Heaven’s real, Hell’s real. It’s all real, just not the way you think. People assume once you’re off Earth everybody’s got it all figured out, but that isn’t true. Nobody anywhere has anything figured out. But things still work out one way or another.” 

“How is that supposed to help me?” 

“I’m not trying to give advice. I’m just saying how it is. It sucks that you screwed some random guy and had an abortion and came back to South Park. But I bet you’ll find one day there’s a reason for it.” 

“What about you?” Wendy asked. “What’s the reason you come back to life?” 

She expected Kenny to clam up, but he remained surprisingly forthright. He puckered his lips in a moment’s thought, then shrugged. “Beats me. Maybe so I can tell people this stuff. But nobody wants to listen. The world isn’t ready. Maybe I just had to find someone like you who could understand.” 

“But I don’t understand,” she said. “I don’t understand anything you’re saying.” 

“That’s okay,” he said. “I’m not out to become the next Jesus. The next Buddha. I’m just glad you’re willing to listen.” 

“Well… I’m glad you’re listening to me, too. Sorry for freaking out.” 

He lifted his hands. “Trust me, I know the value of a good mental breakdown.” 

With that, the spell was broken and a heavy weight careened off Wendy’s shoulders. She sank lower into the couch. “We still need to talk about _ your _ bullshit.” 

Kenny stood up and stretched his arms. “That can wait. There’s still daylight left. I’d rather hold off till dark.” 

Wendy frowned up at him. “Are you a vampire?” 

He flashed his teeth with a grin. “Maybe.” 

His canines were of a normal length, so she dashed that possibility. “Oh, fuck off.” 

“Take a nap. You look beat.” He patted her head in a brotherly manner, then grabbed his smokes and lighter and ashtray.

She straightened. “Wait - where are you going?” 

Halfway across the room, he paused midstride and looked over his shoulder. “The kitchen. To read.” 

“Oh.” 

“Relax,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

For some reason, she didn’t believe him. 

/ 

Kenny was right - Wendy needed a nap. She tossed and turned in bed, emotionally exhausted but unable to sleep. Eventually, she threw her blankets off and got up to crack her door open. Kenny wasn’t making any noise save for imperceptible page flipping but the smell of cigarettes confirmed his presence. Clem laid in the alcove, keeping her room and Kenny in sight. His head rolled across the carpet as he looked at her, tail flicking. Wendy shut her door before Kenny was alerted of her spying. 

She didn’t know why she felt spooked. Kenny wouldn’t lie to her - not now, not anymore. Still, the same premonition she felt in the parking lot the night before had returned, set her spine stiff and mind to worry. 

She went to her desk and retrieved her notes from the office. There wasn’t any new information to be gleamed, but it was helpful to reaffirm what she already knew, and to match Kenny’s personal testimony against testimony placed against him. This, however, reminded her that Kenny hadn’t said much about himself since they returned to the apartment, which doubled her baseless suspicion.

Looking over her notes in the dim light of her bedroom, a strange inspiration took hold, and she pulled out a blank piece of paper. She needed to write something down - commit to record what she had learned. After gnawing on the end of a pen, she finally jotted a quick summary of Kenny’s unique predicament, slid it between her pre-existing notes and stowed it all back into her purse. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is where the fun begins

Wendy woke up a couple hours later tangled in her bed sheets, plagued by the remnants of an unsettling dream she couldn’t remember. Her nap was unsatisfying—the kind where you just close your eyes, flash forward, and wake up feeling less rested than before. 

Wendy lifted the curtain behind her bed to discern the time. The dark night sky had projected itself across an untainted field of snow whilst she slept and now everything was awash in gray hues. She placed her palm flat against the windowpane, let the cold surface sluice through her skin and jolted her to full alertness. 

A meow at her door caused her to turn. She padded across the room and peeked out into the hall. Clem clawed at the carpet and repeated his needy mewl, baleful eyes turned upward. 

Guilty for her earlier treatment of him, Wendy scooped him into her arms. “You’re hungry, aren’t you?” she cooed. “I need some supper, too.” 

She noticed, as she walked towards the kitchen, a lack of smoke in the air. Her brief spike of anxiety quickly settled when she found Kenny slumped over the table fast asleep, his head resting on an outstretched arm. The Camus book lay open beside him face down, neighbored by the pack of Marlboros and the small bowl now filled with cigarette butts. 

Wendy deposited Clem onto the table. He hopped down to his bowl on the floor. She ignored his irritated chirp, too busy observing Kenny’s slumbering face. A breeze from the open window stirred his loose bangs, which exposed his eyebrow piercings to the dim yellow light. She could even make out the barbell stabbed through his tongue between his parted lips. 

Abashed at noticing such a thing, she diverted her attention and picked up the paperback. A ballpoint pen embossed with the clinic’s logo laid underneath. Curious whether or not Kenny had made annotations, Wendy flipped the book in her hands, scanned the page, and found an underlined excerpt:

_ But in order to speak about all and to all, one has to speak of what all know and of the reality common to us all. The seas, rains, necessity, desire, the struggle against death—these are things that unite us all. We resemble one another in what we see together, in what we suffer together. Dreams change from individual, but the reality of the world is common to us all. _

The adjacent margins offered no clues to Kenny’s interpretation or opinion of the paragraph, but he had underlined “the struggle against death” thrice with such force that the pen nib bit indentations into the yellowed paper. Personally, Wendy was drawn to “we resemble one another in what we see together,” as it seemed more pertinent to their situation. She contemplatively ran her fingertips across the phrase, then returned the book to its previous position and proceeded to pour Clem a bowl of kibble. 

Wendy left Clem to his eager munching and started tidying up, giving wide birth to Kenny’s sleeping form. He didn’t stir once. He was probably in sore need of sleep if his insomnia diagnosis was accurate. But more than that he needed to eat. Also, Wendy didn’t want him waking up with a crooked back. 

She stood over him, remembered his ministration from hours ago, and cupped his head with her palm. “Kenny?” 

He grumbled and burrowed deeper into his arm. 

“Kenny,” she repeated. “You can’t sleep like this. Wake up.” She threaded her fingers through his surprisingly soft hair. “Come on, you baby.”

His peaceful expression scrunched with his nose. Wendy retracted her hand as he blinked up at her. 

“Hi,” she said. 

“Hi,” he replied. Adorably bemused, he lifted his head, his cheek imprinted with red contours of his coat sleeve. “What fucking time is it?” 

She glanced at the microwave. “Seven thirty.” 

He thumped his head back to his arm. “Gimme five more minutes.” 

“You need to eat something.” Her hand returned, on its own accord, to his hair. He gave her a questioning look through the corner of his eye but did not comment or move away. “If you want to go back to sleep at least move to the couch.”

He closed his eyes. “Keep doin’ that. It feels good.” 

Wendy hadn’t realized she was scratching his scalp. She paused in alarm, but Kenny let out a childish whine so she resumed the motion. “When was the last time you slept?” she asked.

His coat rustled loudly as he shrugged. “Dunno. A couple days?” 

“A couple  _ days _ ?” 

“It’s fine. Don’t worry ‘bout it.” 

“You’re impossible.” She slid her hand down to the nape of his neck, then yanked him up by the collar. 

“Hey!” He lurched against the back of his chair, eyes wide. “What the fuck?” 

Unbothered, she spun around and opened a cabinet. “You’re going to eat. Then you’re going to sleep.” 

“Not  _ anymore _ now that you’ve manhandled me. Now I’m wide awake. Once I’m up, I’m up.” 

She pulled out two cups of ramen and tore their paper lids off. “Get me some water, then.” 

“Now you’re bossing me around,” he mumbled, but did as told. The coffee pot was the closest receptacle in the vicinity; he topped it off at the sink then thrusted it over. “Here ya go.” 

Wendy filled each cup and popped them in the microwave. Kenny, meanwhile, stayed where he was leaning against the counter, rubbing the sand out of his eyes. 

“I feel like shit,” he said. 

“Well, you left the window open,” Wendy pointed out. “You’re probably going to get a cold.” 

“My back hurts.” 

“Did you just pass out while reading?” 

Kenny dropped his hands. “Kinda.” 

Wendy frowned. “What’s that mean?” 

“Means I passed out.” 

The microwave beeped. Wendy set the ramen on the table. The smell of chicken broth filled the room. She got two forks and poked Kenny’s side with one. “Sit down.” 

“I’m not hungry,” he mumbled, though his rumbling stomach gave him away. He pursed his lips, hooked a chair with his foot, and dug into his piping hot cup without hesitation. “Are you satisfied?” he asked around a mouthful of noodles. 

“More grossed out.” She sat across from him and ate her own ramen at a decidedly conservative pace. 

Kenny tossed his fork down. A burp masked its noisy clatter. “That was a real culinary delight,” he commended. “Five stars.”

Wendy smirked. “Thanks for the review.” 

He raked his tongue over his front teeth, then started digging at a particularly stubborn speck of food. “You got all the jokes, huh? Feeling better now that you’ve admitted your sins?” 

“Sure,” she said. “I can’t wait to hear yours.” 

Kenny finally dislodged the food between his teeth, flicked it to the floor. “You don’t got the guts to hear all my sins.”

Wendy looked down and poked at her noodles. “Y’know, I don’t think you’re all that sinful. I think you’re a nice guy. You just don’t want people to know.” 

“Why wouldn’t I?” Kenny asked. “It’d save me a lotta trouble.” 

“I don’t know.” Wendy glanced up. “You tell me.” 

“Pfft! Whatever.” He rose from the table. “I gotta take a wazz. And a shit.” 

Wendy rolled her eyes. “I can only imagine the state of your stools.” 

“Come check it out,” he suggested as he left the room, “I’ll yell when I’m done!” 

Kenny did in fact beckon Wendy to take a look at his poop, but she declined his offer and instead disposed of their palsy dinner. She had just finished washing their forks and the coffee cups from earlier when he reentered the kitchen zipping the fly of his pants. 

“I’m excavated,” he announced. Wendy tossed her rag over the faucet and turned to look at him. He stilled in the doorway, his fingers frozen on his crotch. “What?” 

She crossed her arms. “You’re not getting of this.” 

Kenny slouched against the wall and mirrored her. “I’m not tryna get outta nothing, girl.” 

“Then talk.” 

“Ehhh. Fooey.” 

She raised her eyebrows. “Fooey?” 

He bit his lip. “Let’s go for a walk.” 

Her eyebrows gained altitude. “A walk?” 

“Yes! So many questions, jeeze. Are you deaf?” 

She looked out the window. “It’s freezing.” 

“You grew up in Colorado,” he said. “A little cold ain’t gonna kill you. C’mon—I wanna mobilize.” 

Wendy’s thirst for knowledge trumped her need for warmth. She sighed and lowered her arms. “Let me go put on my coat.” 

/

They swaddled up and went outside. Kenny took point, leading Wendy across the apartment complex’s diameter. Her boots crunched through the trail of scraggly lines cut by his untied sneakers. She felt like they were stuck in a snowglobe, or traversing another planet where none had pioneered before. The illusion broke when they finally emerged into the outskirts of Shi Tpa Town. Kenny trekked onward apparently at random, taking senseless turns and at times circling back around. 

The plows hadn’t been out yet. Cars whizzed past in four wheel drive, slicing the white landscape with yellow headlights. Tire-gouged black lines in the road were refilled with unceasing snowfall, and gray sludge started piling up on the curbs. 

Wendy expelled puffs of air with every plodded step. Her boots were nice, but they weren’t meant for rigorous seasonal exercise. The snow sucked her feet up to her ankles. She had to fight for every stride, whereas Kenny effortlessly hoofed it in his ancient Reeboks, the wet cuffs of his jeans packed with clumps of snow. 

He lit a cigarette. Wendy nearly asked for one just to warm up, but the sandpapery rasp in the back of her throat impeded her request. She suffered in silence until snot began dripping from her nose, then jogged a few steps ahead to match Kenny’s gangly stride. 

“I’m going to go back home if you don’t say something,” she warned. 

His amused glance was barely discernible in the snowy darkness. “I’m enjoying the quiet. It’s nice.” 

“Not nice enough.” 

“Cold?” he asked. 

“Obviously.” 

He stuck his cigarette in his mouth. “Here,” he mumbled, shrugging off his coat, “take this.” 

Wendy accepted the garment only because she feared he’d drop it to the ground if she didn’t. “But you’ll get sick.” 

“Sure, I might get sick.” He took hold of his cigarette once more, stood in nothing but his orange sweater looking like a goddamn safety cone. “And then what— _ die _ ?” 

“Okay, fine. I get it.” Wendy threw his coat over her shoulders. Not large enough to zip, it sat bulky atop her own but served its purpose as an extra buffer against the wind and snow. 

Kenny resumed walking. Wendy made sure to keep up with him as they snaked around South Park’s outer limits. Businesses and residencies fell away to the sparsely populated backroads hedged in by thickets of pine trees. Giant mountaintops peeked over the treeline, threatening and protective all at once.

“You know,” Wendy began—an answering grunt proved Kenny’s attention, “just because you can’t die doesn’t mean you shouldn’t take care of yourself. It still matters what happens to you.” 

“That’s rich,” Kenny said. “That’s so cute.” 

She scowled. “Don’t patronize me. I’m being nice.” 

“ _ You’re _ the one patronizing me.” A passing car illuminated Kenny’s hunched gait as he illustrated his corporeal form by flopping his arms. “Try dying every day for twenty five years without consequence and see how much  _ you _ give a fuck.” 

“Oh. Well… I guess that’s fair.” 

The sidewalk disintegrated into a gravelly shoulder down the road. Here the snow had yet to thicken, allowing for better traction and easier walking. Wendy tried catching glimpses of Kenny’s face as he chainsmoked, but all she could see was an orange glow reflected off the ball of his nose. 

Another car swept litter across their feet with a funnel of sharp air. Wendy circled around to Kenny’s other side, using him as a human shield against the cold. “This is your idea of a walk?” she asked after the car had passed and quiet reigned once more. Talking distracted her from the abysmal temperature. 

“I like walking,” he said. “I used to walk everywhere. Never got my license, you know.” 

“Why not?” 

“I couldn’t have afforded a car, or gas, or insurance, so I didn’t see the point. Especially after I dropped outta school. I was pretty busy.” 

“I’m sure you were,” Wendy said. 

“Walking’s nice,” Kenny continued. “You notice things you usually wouldn’t. Like…” He pointed at a nearby pine. “Like that tree. Or other stuff. It’s dark. But you can smell the air. And hear everything.” He cut himself off, realizing he was beginning to ramble, and took a drag off his cigarette. 

She wished she could see the world with the same uncomplicated outlook. “I think it’s terrible,” she told him. “My toes are numb. Let’s just turn back around.” 

“Don’t wimp out. You’re battling the elements. Anything short of frostbite, you’re good. I promise.” 

A macabre curiosity seized her at his words. “Have you ever died of frostbite?” 

He shot her a look, not necessarily offended but surprised at the straightforward question. “Uh, yeah.”

Wendy pulled his coat tighter around herself. “What else?” 

“Oh, man. Anything you can think of.” He shot her a strikingly familiar grin, like he was about to ask her to dare him to jump off an overpass. “I’m serious. Just guess anything.”

Another car sped by. Wendy contemplated its retreat. “Were you ever run over?” 

Kenny’s laughter echoed after the vehicle. “Too many times to count! You gotta be a little more creative, here.” 

“Fine. Let me think.” She looked up at the mountains. “Have you been mauled by a bear?” 

Kenny nodded. “Yep. Camping trip with Stan and his uncle in eighth grade.” 

“That sounds oddly suspicious…” 

“Because it’s true.” Kenny’s expression flagged. “Don’t tell me you think I’m lying.” 

“I don’t. It’s just—difficult to wrap my head around.” 

“Ask me another,” he said, brightening once more.

“Have you been electrocuted?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Burnt to death?” 

“That’s one of the worst.”

“Drowned?” 

“Uh-huh. C’mon, keep it going.” 

Wendy sighed. She didn’t ponder extraneous methods of death often and thus lacked imagination. “I don’t know. I can’t think of anything else.” 

“I’ve been shot a thousand times,” Kenny elucidated. “I’ve had all my limbs cut off and died from blood loss. Even got a pretty wicked case of syphilis once. Overdosed a bunch. I’ve been crushed, maimed, and murdered by, like, hundreds of people. On purpose or accident.”

“Jesus,” Wendy remarked. “And no one ever faced any repercussions for it?” 

“I never did,” Kenny said. “Why should they?” 

“Still—it seems unfair.” 

Kenny shrugged. “I don’t really care. I used to take it all personal. Not anymore.” 

“Why not?” 

“It doesn’t matter. Nobody gets in trouble because nobody remembers what they did. And I always come back. Is it really a crime if I didn’t really die?” He made a disquieted face. “For awhile, when I was like fourteen, I kept killing myself to see if it’d stick. It never did. After that I kinda stopped giving a shit. And then—well, you know.” 

They walked a few meters in silence. Wendy wasn’t surprised by Kenny’s suicidal ideation; the casual way in which he spoke about it obstructed any true dismay on her part, and the fact that he was alive next to her helped furnish the illusion that they were only speaking in theoretical terms, impossible as those terms may be.

She studied at his dark and unreadable profile. “You said no one remembers when you die.” 

“Yeah,” he confirmed. 

“Is it because no one knows that you can come back?” she asked. “If they don’t know it’s a possibility, then they wouldn’t consider it as an explanation. So their minds fill in the blanks.” 

“Maybe,” Kenny said. He gave her a long, searching look. “I guess we’ll find out next time it happens.” 

She didn’t like the sound of that. “Does it hurt?” she asked, steering the conversation elsewhere. It was a dumb question, but one she naturally had to ask. 

Kenny scoffed. “Leading up to it? Fuck yeah, it hurts. I’ve got a bit of a tolerance though. Mentally, I mean.” He rolled his sleeve up and proffered his forearm. “You could stab me right now, and it’d be whatever. I’m used to it.” He shook his arm out and his sleeve fell back to his wrist. “But the actual death part of it? Not really. There comes a point where I just drop off. Black out. Go to sleep. Whatever you want to call it.”

“I read about near death experiences in school,” Wendy mentioned. “They were all along the same lines. It made it sound almost pleasant.” 

“I’m sure it is, when it lasts,” Kenny said.

They rounded a bend on the road, which transitioned into the highway. There were no signs of civilization, no more passing cars or road signs. Just them at the snow and the mountains in the night. 

Kenny marched towards a guardrail stapled to the rim of an icy precipice. He stomped his cigarette out in the snow, then swung a leg up and straddled the guardrail. Irked that they’d stopped, Wendy marched in place to keep her blood flowing. “What are you doing?”

Kenny leaned forward to investigate the cliff face. He spat a loogie to measure its depth. “Just chilling out.”

“Get off of there,” she ordered. “You’ll fall.” 

“I wanna try something.” He straightened to look at her, his face grim. “It’s been over nine months. I’m fully gestated. Overdue.” 

Wendy froze. “Kenny—” 

“Be right back.” 

He careened backwards.

Wendy’s heart dropped. She gripped the guardrail and watched as Kenny plummeted through the air. He smacked into the ground below with a sickening splat. Wendy pulled her phone out with shaking hands and turned its flashlight on. Kenny’s body was too far down to see properly, but she could make out his torqued spine and broken bones. A fountain of blood pooled beneath him, stark red against the white snow. 

He was dead. 

Wendy stumbled backwards and fell down. Her phone landed on its face in the snow, the flashlight beaming up into her wide eyes as she clutched the coat of a dead man and shivered. 

She didn’t know how long she sat in shock. A truck eventually pulled up beside her. The driver, an elderly man wearing a vest and billed hunting cap with earflaps, walked around to look at her. “Are you okay?” he asked. He squatted in front of her when she didn’t reply. “Wait a second—Wendy?! What are you doing out here, young lady?”

She looked up. It took a moment to recognize Jimbo, and even longer to find her voice. “I—I got lost.”

Jimbo frowned, his grizzly face furrowed with concerned alarm. “Where were you headed?” 

“I went for a walk. Got turned around.”

“Well, alright.” Clearly disbelieving, he didn’t press the issue. “Let me give you a ride back to town.” 

/ 

Jimbo had retired to his log cabin with Ned upon closing his shop years ago. He was on his way to buy beer when he found Wendy. He asked her all sorts of things—what was she doing out so late? Was she going to see someone? Did she have a car? Was it broken down? Had she been drinking? Wendy made halfhearted excuses, wishing he’d shut up, then stopped answering any questions that did not pertain to directions.

He finally dropped her off at her apartment. He rolled his window down after she got out and gave her a shrewd eye. “Be more careful next time.”

“I will,” she said, “Thanks again. I appreciate it.” 

He didn’t leave until she went inside. She slugged her way upstairs in a daze, unlocked her door, and slipped into her apartment. Clem trotted forward and, sensing her distress, rubbed against her ankles. She sank to her knees and pulled him close to her chest, pressed her nose into his soft fur. 

“Kenny’s dead,” she told him.

She cried in fitful bursts, apprehended by cognitive dissonance. Kenny died, but he’d come back—or so she hoped. Perhaps he really did suffer from Cotard’s delusion and she had just witnessed his suicide. 

She shucked her boots off along with Kenny’s coat, which she folded carefully and set upon the coffee table, then took off her own coat and let it drop to the floor. Too exhausted to move any further, she collapsed on the couch and shut her eyes, pretending that she could still smell Kenny’s scent impressed into the cushions. 

His bloody snow angel followed her into sleep.

/

Work was a slog the next day. Wendy brushed off inquiries about her sudden “family emergency.” The excuse lended itself to her mood and no one bothered her. Her mind was elsewhere. She felt like she’d forgotten something major but matter how much coffee she drank she couldn’t jog her memory. 

It was something about Kenny. She noted his absence when she woke up on the couch. She didn’t know why she hadn’t made it to her bedroom, but that’s where she found herself—fully dressed with an awful headache, Clem curled into her side.

As his caseworker, she was supposed to keep tabs on Kenny’s whereabouts. There was a protocol to hunting someone down. Call the authorities, make sure he hadn’t been spotted anywhere, dropped off at the police station or the hospital. Yet an instinct she was learning to follow kept her from picking up the phone. Besies, Kenny had said no one would be able to find him, and she believed him. He had disappeared for months at a time before and he could do it again. 

But that wasn’t right either. He’d come back. Wendy was sure of it. She tried to remember the previous day, but couldn’t recall anything past the end of her shift. Her memories were fragmented and mixed up. A collection of mismatched puzzle pieces she couldn’t put together. She was working too much, she thought. But the amnesia didn’t send her into a panic. A deeper sense of calm kept her from freaking out. She could practically hear Kenny telling her to chill out in her head.

Her lunch break came around. Once again bereft of a salad, she walked across the street to the gas station and bought a premade sandwich, a pack of Marlboros and a lighter. She sat on the cement walkway wrapped around the building and ate her lunch contemplatively. It was a cold, bright afternoon. Plows had scraped the streets last night. The snow was no longer pretty but rather a nuisance, reflecting blinding sunlight wherever it wasn’t shoveled into gray heaps.

Wendy crumpled the sandwich wrapper and stowed it away in her pocket. Her hand bumped into the cigarettes. She pulled them out and lit one up, hoping Kenny would pop out and steal it from her, but he never materialized. 

Footsteps sounded behind her. She turned around to find Jimbo of all people standing above her. “Morning,” he said. 

“It’s one o’ clock,” she told him. 

“Good afternoon, then.” 

She narrowed her eyes. “Can I help you?” 

“I gave you a lift last night.” He pointed at a truck parked at one of the gas pumps. “Remember?” 

Wendy glanced at the vehicle, then back at its driver. “No, I don’t. Sorry.” 

“You were awfully out of sorts. I saw you sitting out here and figured I’d say hello. Make sure you’re doing okay.”

“You have me mistaken for someone else.” 

“No, I don’t think I do. I wouldn’t forget a girl alone on the highway. Especially if it was my nephew’s ex-girlfriend.” Jimbo lifted his hat and scratched his balding head. “You were wearing the same coat you are now. I took you to your apartment and everything. In Shi Tpa Town, remember?”

Wendy blinked. She masked her unease by taking another drag off her cigarette. By the time she exhaled she had decided to play along. “Sorry. I didn’t get much sleep. I remember that now. By chance, did you see anyone with me? Like, um, Kenny McCormick?”

Jimbo’s brow rose. “The McCormick boy? Why, nobody’s seen him in months! Last I heard he was up in Hell’s Pass for God knows what. But...I asked if you were on your way to meet somebody. You wouldn’t say. Could it have been him?” 

“Maybe,” she said, then added, “I mean - yeah, it was.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t find him.” 

“Are you in some kinda trouble?” Jimbo asked. He had a grandfatherly air about him, a goodnatured nosiness. “If you are, me and Ned can help you out. And I’m not just speaking as Stan’s uncle. You’re a good girl. Always have been. Kenny McCormick…” Jimbo whistled. “That boy is bad news, Wendy. I know you ain’t been back in town that long, but you don’t know what kinda ruckus he’s been up to since you and all your friends left.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Wendy snubbed her cigarette on the concrete and stood. “Thanks for checking on me. Hey—do me a favor and don’t tell Stan about this, okay? Please, Jimbo? I don’t want him to worry. It’s not a big deal. I just had a rough night, is all.” 

Jimbo heaved a longsuffering sigh. “Well, alright. But promise you’ll come see me if something’s amiss.” 

“I promise,” Wendy said. 

She hurried off before Jimbo could say anything else. His gaze tracked her across the street until he finally climbed back into his truck. Wendy then sprinted across the strip mall’s parking lot and clamored into her own vehicle. 

She dropped her forehead on the steering wheel. Fucking Jimbo. The last thing she needed was for him to tell Stan he found her on the side of a road. Stan would probably come straight to town with herbal teas and meditation practices and try to weasel the truth out of her. 

But what could she say? She didn’t know what the truth was anymore. Where was Kenny? What happened to him? What happened to  _ her _ ? Something took place last night. She knew it. But she couldn’t remember! 

She fisted her hands in her lap and let out a frustrated groan. “Calm down,” she muttered to herself. 

She took in a deep breath and sat up, looked at the strip mall before her. She imagined it was nighttime and that Kenny was leaning against the pillar where she’d found him. She  _ did _ find him. She picked him up, took him to Wal-mart, and brought him into her home. She knew because his coat was still in her apartment, because those memories held strong, cemented in her mind. That was irrevocable evidence, the only thing that kept her from worrying she had fabricated the whole thing. 

She thought back to his report and all the evidence within it, too. She couldn’t remember asking Kenny about it, but she knew that she’d figured out he was somehow unaffected by his addictions, that his body reset itself either on command or at random intervals. 

With only fifteen minutes left in her break, Wendy rolled her window down. After finishing her second cigarette in as many years, she went back inside and locked herself in her office. Just as she put her purse away a ream of paper she didn’t recognize peeked out from its jumbled contents.

They were notes on Kenny, lifted verbatim from his record in what was undoubtedly her own cursive scrawl. Wendy didn’t remember writing them down. She flipped through the notes until finding a page of a different character—put down hurriedly in a different color of ink than before. 

_ Kenny is immortal _ , she read.  _ He comes back to life whenever he dies. Don’t know how. He says no one ever remembers. I don’t know if I’ll remember if he dies again. I hope I will, but I guess that’s why I’m writing this. So I won’t forget - or at least I’ll know what happened if I do. If Kenny disappears and I don’t remember, he died. And if Kenny dies, he has to come back. No matter how long it takes.  _

Wendy reread her own words several times before lowering the paper. She  _ was _ right. 

Kenny died, somehow. If he had simply got up and left, she’d remember. But she didn’t remember anything, and she wouldn’t have known what it was she forgot if it wasn’t for this note to self. 

You can’t forget something you didn’t experience. Kenny died. Wendy had seen it. And then she forgot about it as if it had never happened.    
  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk how i feel about this chapter... i could've done better but i didn't want to rewrite it to death or else i'd never post it. i'm just setting stuff up. added some new tags... will continue doing so as plot points are revealed 
> 
> as the semester nears its end i'm getting busier as well. hopefully over thanksgiving break i'll be able to hammer out a chapter or two in advance. please bear with me!

Days passed with no sign of Kenny, forcing Wendy to resume her regular routine as if he never reappeared in the first place. Friday evening she met her parents for dinner, smiled and conversed without betraying the fact that she was housing a temporarily-deceased drug addict. She even helped her mother wash the dishes after supper then pretended to watch a football game with her father, but couldn’t linger too long or else they’d figure something was wrong. The emphatic hugs she gave them as she left were already a red flag. 

She bypassed Shi Tpa Town on her way home and cruised aimlessly, Kenny’s absence in the passenger seat blown out of proportion due to the fact that she couldn’t properly mourn his death. It was like hearing about a tragedy secondhand—the mind wandered in countless directions trying to envision the real event, each possible scenario further removed from reality.

The mountains blockading the dark and empty highway made Wendy feel claustrophobic rather than humbled. Her headlights beamed across the sign which demarcated South Park’s city limits, and she wondered what would happen if she kept driving—a fantasy she indulged in often. Usually she speculated on how much her parents would worry, or what her boss would say, or whether Stan would climb out of Kyle’s ass and go looking for her. But tonight Wendy wanted to know whether or not Kenny would find her again when he came back, if she left. 

It was a stupid thing to consider. The likelihood of him hunting her down was astronomical, but so too was his immortality. Kenny defied logic. Wendy bet that if he really wanted to he could hitchhike across the country and sniff her out with his weird sixth sense. 

Before her imagination made a consensus the car’s headlights alighted upon a shock of red against the snow. 

Wendy’s eyes snapped to the color and immediately catalogued it as blood. A deep-seated terror rose from her chest. She swerved into the opposite lane onto a patch of black ice. Just as quickly, her reptilian brain kicked in—she instinctively righted the car and came to a screeching halt on the shoulder of the road, a rickety guardrail between her and the edge of a steep cliff.

Silence fell, punctuated by the vehicle’s irritated clanking. Wendy unglued her hands from the wheel and set the car to park, then loosened her locked up seatbelt and cracked her window to get some fresh air. The cold pricked her cheeks. She touched her face, surprised to find tear tracks.

She looked across the road to see what had spooked her. A dead cow laid prone, presumably strayed from its barnyard: tongue hanging out of its parted maw, unseeing eyes forever open in rigor mortis, entrails leaking from its punctured stomach. Nothing but roadkill.

Yet Wendy knew she had imagined it was Kenny’s corpse in her peripheral vision. She screwed her eyes shut but the image wouldn’t leave her alone now that it had taken root—his body sprawled brokenly in red-stained snow, visualized with such clarity that she had to stumble out of her car to vomit. 

She spat the last dregs of her mother’s lasagna over the guardrail. A strange deja vu infiltrated her frazzled mind. She wiped her mouth with the sleeve of Kenny’s coat—which she’d taken to wearing instead of her pea coat—and stared at the bottom of the cliff. There was nothing but a fresh snowbank. No body: blond, bovine or otherwise. 

She scooped a handful of snow to rinse her face off. As she patted her hands dry she noticed a cigarette butt on the ground half-disintegrated by snow. She picked it up and examined the soggy bit of paper casing still attached to the filter. It was Marlboro, the same brand Kenny had chosen at Wal-mart. 

Wendy dropped the cigarette. It could have been anyone’s—not that there were many vagabond smokers around South Park, but still. This was ridiculous.

She got back into her car, put the incident out of her mind, and went home. 

/

Upon getting hired Wendy thought it a boon that she had every weekend off, but now the idea of suffering two days alone in her apartment seemed torturous. Kenny’s presence was a balm to her hermitude; their shared past, however sparse, a thread which she wanted to follow in the dark after months of solitude. 

Now that he was gone she felt more directionless than ever. All Saturday morning she laid on the couch with Clem, who kept running to look out the window at every noise. But Kenny never showed up. 

“He’ll be back,” Wendy told Clem each time he slunked back to her side. 

Kenny  _ had _ to come back. Certainly he wouldn’t return to the streets upon rebirth or resurrection or whatever—there was nothing for him there. But what could Wendy offer besides warm food and a roof over his head? No matter how grievously he yearned for Marlboros or milkshakes, she doubted either would keep him enticed forever.

They were friends, or on their way to becoming friends. Comradery was all Wendy could give him. It’d been so long since she’d had a friend. She was never close to anyone in Denver unless her clothes were off. Before that the only person she’d known well was Stan, and that was partly out of obligation. 

In less than two days Kenny established himself as Wendy’s one true friend, possibly in her entire life. The revelation was not as shocking compared to his immortality or death, but it brought a sense of urgency and possessiveness. Wendy didn’t want to lose Kenny. She doubted he felt the same about her. After losing so much, he seemed to have learned not to hold anything dear. 

But that didn’t matter. Whether or not Kenny came back to her at all—there was the chance that he  _ would _ , and Wendy needed to be ready for that moment. If he walked in right now and saw her moping with Clem, he might second guess her capability in handling his unique problem and abscond for her own sake. Wendy wouldn’t let that happen. She’d prove to Kenny and to herself that she was strong enough to handle this. Whatever it was. If it required intermittent bouts of loss, so be it—she could handle loss, as long as she regained Kenny’s friendship when he returned. 

Determined, Wendy spent the early afternoon cleaning her apartment. She had so much nervous energy she even alphabetized her bookcases and put aside a few titles Kenny might be interested in. But eventually there was simply nothing left to do. Everything had been swept, swiped, or vacuumed, and Wendy still had half the day left. 

She decided to go for a walk. She couldn’t remember the last time she had taken a stroll just because. Her workout routine fell to the wayside when she returned home from Denver, and though she wasn’t out of shape by any means she wasn’t in as good of shape as before. Even then she had only gone to the gym, never for a leisurely jaunt; leisure wasn’t something she often indulged.

The midday sun softened the cold, and most of the sidewalks were cleared of snow, either by the town’s street department or proactive homeowners; altogether the excursion was easy going. Wendy proceeded at a casual pace without a destination in mind. She made it a goal to discern the world through Kenny’s sharply observant eyes, the pack of smokes she held for him on layaway heavy in the pocket of his coat sitting bulky and overlarge on her shoulders. 

Families went in and out of Shi Tpa Town’s restaurants for lunch. Workers loitered around back on illegal breaks evidenced by the cigarette smoke drifting above fenced in dumpsters. Militant mothers ducked into stores to get ahead in holiday shopping, dragging unamused kids who brightened only with the promise of a new toy for their good behavior. 

Bumbling between the general populace were folks similar to Kenny. Heads ducked, hands pocketed, and clothes threadbare, they afforded a special radius of space. Wendy edged towards their invisible barriers seeking a pair of blue eyes or greasy blond hair, but found none. 

The streets emptied considerably once she entered a residential neighborhood buffering Shi Tpa Town from the rest of South Park. Windows lit up in warm hues were guarded by poorly constructed snowmen like the front of a Christmas card. Gaggles of little kids skirted past, all bundled up in coats and hats and gloves. If she superimposed the likenesses of her own childhood contemporaries onto their snot-nosed and rosy-cheeked faces, Wendy might as well have traveled fifteen years back in time. And that was the strange thing about time, she thought. The big important things always changed but the countless small stuff remained as it was, and when you added all of it up the difference was practically null. 

Wendy thoughtlessly sojourned to the opposite side of town. She stopped only when she heard a familiar voice mumble a censored curse, her head snapping toward its source.

She’d apparently made it all the way to the church. A blond man in a puffer jacket, bent inside of an open sedan, sensed her gaze and looked up.

“Wendy?” 

“ _ Butters _ ?”

“By God,” Butters said with utmost seriousness. He slammed his car door shut and ambled across the parking lot. “It sure is nice to see you.” 

Wendy reeled at the priestly collar peeking out of his partially unzipped jacket. She’d known that he went off to seminary school immediately after graduation—and expected to never see him again. “I...didn’t know you were back in town.” 

“I didn’t know you were either!” A box stuffed under his arm, Butters awkwardly removed his gloves and held out a hand. Wendy accepted the gesture, surprised at how firmly he delivered the handshake. 

They stared at each other for a long moment. Butters’ face had shed its last vestiges of baby fat, hair cut down to an attractively slick crew cut. His shoulders filled his jacket well. He looked good, nothing like the gullible dweeb or nervous teenager Wendy remembered from her youth. She wondered what changes he saw in her. Hopefully nothing too pathetic.

He released her hand. She became painfully aware of her trembling fingers and numb ears. “Wanna come inside for a bit?” he asked.

Wendy glanced at the church’s ornate front doors. Her parents were not  _ not _ religious, but they hadn’t often attended services outside of Christmas and Easter. Consequently Wendy grew weary of the place of worship, having associated it with boring interruptions of otherwise fun holidays on top of anti-theist sentiments she picked up in college through osmosis. 

Butters’ eyes crinkled, full of characteristic compassion—metered and weaponized now, like any good clergyman. “It’s only me. Just cuz I’m a priest now, it doesn’t mean I’m not your old pal Butters anymore.” 

Wendy snorted at the idea of parishoners calling him  _ Butters  _ and  _ Father _ at the same time. “Okay, sure.” 

“Great!” 

Butters grabbed her by the forearm and just about dragged her inside. Not that Wendy was digging her heels into the parking lot’s asphalt. 

They entered a warm, carpeted atrium that still smelled of old people, old books, and old wood. Butters trekked down the hall with his box. Wendy had no choice but to follow. 

He elbowed the door to an office open. Wendy slipped in after him and stood before a small desk bracketed by squat bookshelves, boxes all around the floor.

“Isn’t this Father Maxi’s office?” she asked. 

Butters blinked. “You didn’t hear?” 

Wendy blinked back out of embarrassment, realizing the reason for Butters’ return. “Oh. Um—” 

He set the box in his hands down with a sense of finality. “Father Maxi passed a month ago.” 

Wendy floundered at the news. She didn’t really pay attention to anything that happened in town outside of her job, her clients, and her parents. Her mom might have mentioned it in passing once, maybe even invited her to tag along to the funeral, though Wendy couldn’t be sure. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” Butters dismissed, straightening. “Father Maxi was a great man. And now he’s where we’ll all return.” 

“Right…” 

“I wasn’t planning on coming back so soon—I was supposed to do some missionary work and all, but, well.” Butters grinned boyishly. “There’s not a lot of would-be priests in South Park, are there?” 

Wendy remembered what Kenny had told her in the apartment— _ I’m a fucking priest, alright? Confess.  _ She brushed the memory away. “Honestly, I couldn’t imagine anyone else taking Father Maxi’s place besides you.” 

“Aw, shucks. That really means a lot.” Butters pulled a seat out for her. “Pop a squat! Let’s chat.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Wendy said. “Aren’t you busy?” 

Butters waved her off. “It can wait. You’re more important.” 

Killing with kindness was Butters’ entire modus operandi. Too polite to deny his hospitality, Wendy unzipped Kenny’s coat and threw it over the proffered chair before sitting down. But she wasn’t so polite as to not investigate the boxes littered at her feet once Butters left to retrieve something to drink.

Besides personal trinkets and practical supplies there were tons of books. Different Bible editions, theological treatises, the Catholic catechism. Underneath these texts of tradition lay modern paperbacks written by frankly liberal theologians; Wendy was shocked at their content, then felt abashed having doubted Butters’ ideology—though part of her feared seminary school had brainwashed him. 

“Watcha looking at?” he asked over her shoulder. 

Wendy jolted, her hands tightening around a book dedicated to LGBT Christians. It was too late to stow it back to its proper place. “I was just curious,” she admitted.

Butters sat behind his empty desk with two styrofoam cups of hot chocolate. He nodded at the book Wendy held. “Me too.” 

“Wouldn’t you get in trouble for something like this?” she asked. “It seems a little—off brand.” 

“Sure,” Butters assented. “Some might call me a heretic, but they don’t know jack about anything.” 

No longer in fear of reprimand, Wendy returned the book to its box and picked up the cocoa nudged her way. “I guess if this is your church now, that doesn’t matter.” 

Butters nodded again. “That’s right.” 

“But why stay with Catholicism?” Butters seemed open to conversation, and she kind of wanted to test his mettle as a newly christened priest. 

“I’ve been Catholic my whole life,” he said. “I couldn’t see myself in any other denomination; it’s the one I know best. It’s better to deal with the hard parts or else there’s no chance of fixin’ em. Father Maxi taught me that.” 

Wendy judged her hot chocolate sufficiently cool and took a sip, using the time to process Butters’ adequate response. “That’s a good answer.” 

Butters laughed. “You’re tryin’ to quiz me?” 

“Maybe.” 

“There’s nothin’ to worry about, Wendy,” he promised. “Lots of people are mixed up about the right things for the wrong reasons, I think. My views aren’t really popular, I’ll grant ya that—but the only reason I got through school is because I know what the heck I’m talking about!” 

Maybe it was the warmth compared to the cold outside, or the hot chocolate, or the fact that Butters was such a nice guy, but Wendy suddenly felt forthright, and nothing warmed her up like ideological debate. She threw out the most devisive topic she knew. “So, theoretically, what do you think of abortion?” 

Butters’ eyebrows raised. “Comin’ in hot, aren’t ya?” 

Wendy shrugged, not wanting to accidentally reveal her personal ties to the subject. 

Butters sighed. “It’s unfortunate, for everybody—the mother, the baby, society. People are too worried about the thing itself they forget what drives somebody to do it. I don’t like it, but I understand why someone would make that choice.” 

“You’re just working around the question,” Wendy accused. “Give me a straight answer. Do you think it’s a sin?” 

“We all sin,” Butters replied. He smirked at Wendy’s downcast face. “I know that’s not what you want to hear, but it’s true, and no sin ranks above any other besides murder and rape. Is it a sin to get an abortion? Maybe—so is not giving to the poor, and most mothers who get abortions are poor. Sin begets sin.”

Wendy frowned. “You can’t make a blanket moral judgement like that.” 

Butters lifted his hands, expression soft. “I’m not trying to.” 

“You’re a  _ priest _ .”

“Priests aren’t supposed to judge anyone. That isn’t in my job description. My job is to minister. I’m supposed to take care of people. There’s no room for judgement in that.”

Wendy gulped some hot chocolate to mask how the styrofoam cup crinkled in her hand. 

“Whenever the S word gets brought up everybody starts freaking out,” Butters said. “They got the concept all backwards. The whole world is full of sin. Been that way since the fall of man. But sin isn’t one strike and you’re out. Sin’s everywhere, in everyone. It’s not something you do once. It’s something you do all the time, something we do to each other. So when I say abortion might be a sin, I’m not saying you’re damned forever—” 

“I haven’t—” Wendy started, mistaking Butters’ statement as a claim directed at her, then stopped, unable to lie regardless.

Butters continued smoothly, “Sin isn’t the end, I like to say. Death is the only end, and through Christ even that’s negotiable. The point I’m trying to make is that we’re children of God first and sinners second. Sin isn’t who we are. Sin is what we do, and what is done to us. All that’s required is repentance.” 

“But I don’t need to apologize,” Wendy countered. “I made the right choice.” 

“I’m sure you did,” Butters said gently. “I’m not gonna pretend I know what you were going through, but I can guess you thought long and hard about it. You don’t have to apologize to  _ me _ . You don’t have to apologize to God, either. Being His children, we are forgiven for most anything, long as we’re good people. Even if we can’t forgive ourselves.” 

“What makes you think I can’t forgive myself?” Wendy asked. 

“I’m not the one who brought all this up,” Butters said. “It’s weighing on you, I can tell.” 

Wendy paused, staring back at him. He looked at her the same way Kenny did—down to the core, easy as cutting through butter, no pun intended. “Jesus,” she muttered.

Butters huffed an amicable chuckle. “How’d you like that answer?” 

“It was alright.”

“This  _ is _ just my first day.” 

“Yeah, well. You’re doing okay.” Wendy figured she’d have to get used to Butters proselytizing, but, coming from him, it wasn’t insufferable. “That doesn’t mean I agree with you.” 

“You don’t have to agree with me on anything,” Butters said. “I’m just here to help out. Really.” 

He rose from his desk, signaling that they’d run out of time for conversation. Wendy didn’t get up right away, momentarily thrown off by the official air with which he carried himself. She never cared for Butters when they were younger; he was so mousy and skittish, two qualities she didn’t have patience for in anyone besides her gay ex-boyfriend, but he seemed to have come into his own since then. 

He occupied space. Unobtrusively. Most people had to command space, but not Butters. It reminded her of Kenny. They were a lot alike in appearance and personality, the way opposite entities were diametrically identical.

He lead her back into the atrium. They stopped at before the church’s front doors. Sunlight streamed in through the mosaic windows, throwing patches of color on the musty carpet. 

The epic glass designs caused Wendy to feel infantile in comparison. She stepped toward their new steward. “I’m sorry I made everything so weird,” she apologized. “I shouldn’t have turned this into a debate. I’m just—like that.” 

“It’s okay, you didn’t make nothin’ weird at all.” Butters reverted back into his old bashful self and tugged at his starch collar. “Even if I got this penguin suit, I still want you to think of me as your buddy, Wendy. If you ever need anything—somebody to talk to, at least—I’m here for you. Not as your priest, but as your friend.” 

“Thank you,” Wendy said, genuinely. “We’ll have to sit down and talk sometime. For real.” 

Butters perked up. “I’d like that. It’s been so long since I’ve been home. I’m sure a lot’s changed!” 

Wendy shrugged. “You’d think so. Sometimes I feel like everything’s different. Other times it seems like it’s all the same.” 

“Maybe it’s both,” Butters said. 

“Maybe,” Wendy replied. She shouldered into Kenny’s coat and zipped it up, bracing herself for the long walk home. 

“Do you want a ride?” Butters asked. 

She shook her head. “No. I like the walk.” 

“Well.” Butters reached into his pocket and pulled out his gloves. “Take these. I got another pair.” 

“You don’t have to—” 

Butters pressed the gloves into her hands. “I insist. Stay warm out there, alright?” 

Wendy relented to his charity and experimentally flexed her hands. “Alright.” 

“Can I give you a hug?” 

“Oh. Um, sure.” 

Butters swept her up in his arms. Chin hooked over his shoulder, she slowly unstiffened and returned the embrace. 

“I’ll pray for you,” he said. 

She recognized the sentiment for what it was. “Thanks, Father.” 

Butters stepped back, laughing. Wendy laughed too. 

“It was nice seeing you,” he said, still holding onto her forearms. “I mean it. Come by anytime. If I’m not here, I’ll be at home.” 

“Your parents’ place?” Wendy’s brow furrowed when Butters nodded. “How does that work?” 

“It’s a long story.” 

“You’ll have to tell me about it.” 

“I will. Here, let me give you my number.”

They traded contact information. Afterward, Wendy grasped one of the doorknobs with a gloved hand. “Bye, Butters.” 

Butters offered her a cheery wave. “Bye, Wendy. God bless you.” 

“You too,” she awkwardly returned, then went back outside.

/ 

Wendy slipped into her apartment of a fresher mind than when she departed. She peeled off Butters’ gloves, then Kenny’s coat. Feeling sentimental, she dug around her closet for more borrowed accoutrements and located an old t-shirt of Stan’s she never had the heart to give back to him. 

She was pulling on a pair of pajama pants to go with the t-shirt when her phone rang. Hobbling on one leg, she hopped to her bed, snapped the pants up to her waist, and straightened. 

“Oh, fuck,” she sighed upon seeing the contact onscreen. She accepted the call, not giving herself time to second guess the decision to answer. “Hello?” 

“Hey,” Stan said. “It’s Stan.” 

“Yes, I know.” Wendy sat down on her bed and fiddled with the hem of his t-shirt, emblazoned with the Park County High Cows logo. “What’s up?” 

“Look, Wendy,” he began. He sounded a little breathless. Hoarse. “I’m trying to be cool about this, okay? I haven’t texted you or called, like, at all.” 

“You haven’t,” Wendy confirmed. In all honesty she’d forgotten Stan’s involvement. But now that he’d mentioned it, such self-discipline was pretty uncharacteristic of him. “I’m very proud of you.” 

“Kyle told me I need to back off. He doesn’t know I’m calling you. We had a huge fight. It got kinda ugly.” 

Wendy laid down and curled her legs up, settling in for a routine extrapolation of Kyle’s whims. It was easier to hold an objective opinion now that she and Stan were no longer dating; back in high school she often felt like  _ their _ third wheel. “What was the fight about?” she asked. 

“Kenny.”

Wendy closed her eyes at the sound of Kenny’s name. More testimony that his presence was a visceral event and she wasn’t going crazy. “Kenny’s fine,” she said. “Don’t worry about it.” 

“That’s what Kyle told me. But how can I  _ not _ worry? He’s just—back, all of a sudden? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” 

“He never left,” Wendy said. “We did.”

Stan let that sink in. His sigh crackled into Wendy’s ear; she could practically envision his defeated puppy dog posture. “I feel just so damn guilty about all of it. Kyle told me I shouldn’t be. I told him he was being an asshole.” 

“He’s probably just trying to distance himself from the situation.”

Stan’s voice sharpened. “Kenny’s not a situation. He’s our friend.” 

“Who is an ex-convict and recovering drug addict,” Wendy reminded. “There’s nothing you can do for him, Stan. Not yet anyway. This is beyond you.” 

“But not  _ you _ ?” Stan asked. 

Might as well come out with it, Wendy thought. “I’m his caseworker, actually.” 

The confession tampered Stan’s jealousy. “Seriously? How did you manage that?” 

“His name just popped into my system. I didn’t have anything to do with it.” 

Stan went silent for a few seconds. “So...you know why he was in the hospital and whatever?” 

Wendy sat up, frowning. The anger which flooded through her required the full length of her spine and stomach to vocalize. “I’m not telling you anything. This is part of my  _ job _ now, Stanley.” 

“Okay, okay,” Stan apologized, chagrined at the weaponization of his full name. “I get it.” 

“Do you  _ really _ ?” Wendy asked. “Is this about what’s best for Kenny, or your own guilt?” 

“Wends…” 

She knew she’d hit a bullseye. “I understand how you feel but honestly, Stan, Kyle’s right. Kenny needs professional intervention. I know what I’m doing,” she fibbed, then added to rectify her bald-faced lie, “I promise I’m trying my best.”

“Okay. I’m sorry. How’re you, though?”

“I’m fine,” Wendy lied again. She needed to change the topic and dropped the one bombshell in her arsenal that was capable of throwing Stan off course.“Butters is back in town.” 

“Wow. No shit?”

“Father Maxi died. He’s the new priest.” 

“That’s so weird. My mom told me about Maxi, but—Butters? Really?” 

“It suits him.”

“I guess it makes sense. He was the only one who took all the church stuff seriously when we were kids.”

“Some people are meant to do certain things,” Wendy concurred. 

“It’ll be cool to see him. You know, Thanksgiving break is coming up in a few weeks…” 

Wendy blinked. “Of course.” 

Stan chuckled softly. “Yeah, I’m already dreading it.” His parents had split up for good in his junior year of high school; Sharon moved back into town whilst Randy stayed on his farm. Neither of them had acclimated to the separation well. 

“You can come to my parents’ place if you want,” Wendy offered. “My mom still asks me about you all the time.” 

“That’s nice. I’ll play it by ear. Might end up just going to Jimbo and Ned’s.” Wendy waited for the question she knew was coming. “Will Kenny be around?” 

“I don’t know.” Wendy wasn’t sure if he’d be back by then. “Something tells me he’s not a fan of holidays. He might run away.” 

Stan’s tone turned accusatory. “How can he run away if you’re keeping an eye on him?” 

“It’s Kenny,” Wendy explained. 

“Where is he now?” Stan asked. 

“Asleep.” It was the best excuse Wendy could think of. She even threw in a morsel of information to appease Stan further. “He’s an insomniac.”

“Oh. That sucks.” 

“Yeah.” 

“So he just sits up all night in your apartment?” 

“He reads a lot, actually.” 

“Really? I didn’t know that,” Stan muttered, almost to himself. There were a lot of things about Kenny nobody knew. Wendy wondered whether or not anybody  _ knew _ him well at all. 

The possibility that she was privy to parts of him no one else was inspired an egotistical gratification. “He’s not some dolt, Stan. He’s very smart.” 

“I never said  _ that _ . Of course he’s smart.” Stan sniffed. “I wish he never would’ve dropped out of school.” 

“You can’t think like that,” Wendy protested. “The past is the past. Kenny’s got to work with what he has right now.” 

“Which is nothing,” Stan stated. 

Wendy pursed her lips. “He has me.” 

“Oh, so you’re best friends all of a sudden?” Stan asked, hackles raised. “You didn’t give a shit about him when we were kids. You never mentioned him once ever since you got back home. But now you’re all—buddy-buddy.” 

“We are not best friends, Stan,” Wendy said. “I’m his social worker. I’m giving him a place to sleep. That’s all. Sure, I’m getting to know him better in the process, but—” 

“I call bullshit,” Stan interjected. “How much have you told him?” 

Wendy let out a nervous laugh. “What?” 

“Kenny does this thing,” Stan said. “Or he  _ did _ . I don’t know anymore. But he can just look at you and make you want to spill your guts. He’s an intuitive guy.” 

“He is,” Wendy affirmed. 

“He was the first person I told I was gay,” Stan confessed. Wendy stirred, taken off guard; Stan gave her a moment to let it sink in, then continued. “I told him I was gay and in love with Kyle but also still in love with you—just not, like, in that way—but we’ve already been through  _ that _ —” He huffed. “Anyway, listen. I told him all that, and guess what? He fucking bounced!” 

Wendy fiddled with her bedsheets, her neck growing hot. “What do you mean?”

“He just disappeared,” Stan said. “He was gone, for weeks. He came back and said he was quitting school for good. After that, we—me and Kyle and Cartman, or anybody, really—we barely saw him anymore. No follow up with the whole sexuality crisis or anything else.” 

“I didn’t know that,” Wendy said. 

“My point is you gotta be careful with him,” Stan warned. “Don’t get me wrong. Kenny’s a good person, I know it. But he’s also kind of an asshole. He’ll get you to say all this shit, open up to him, but it might not lead anywhere. It might not be worth anything.” 

“Stan—” 

“Don’t get too attached, is what I’m saying,” Stan concluded. “There’s no telling with him. One day he’s all in, next day he’s checked out. You know?” 

Wendy nodded. “Yeah. I can see that.” 

Stan released another sigh. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt, especially if you’re trying to help him out.”

Wendy supposed that was a reasonable concern. She might know something about Kenny nobody else did, but that didn’t mean she knew him  _ well _ . “I understand.”

“I guess you were right, though,” Stan said. “Maybe I shouldn’t talk to him right now. He might be pissed at me—but I’m still pissed at him, too. Just...be careful, Wends. I know how you get with stuff like this.”

“And how is that?” Wendy asked. 

“You give it your all. But, I’m telling you, Kenny could take it and throw it away. You should ask Kyle about him sometime.” 

“What happened between them?” 

“It’s not my place,” Stan said. “Just don’t tell Kyle I told you to ask him.” 

“Okay, well. Thanks.” 

“Yeah.” 

“I’m wearing your t-shirt,” Wendy blurted out. 

“Uhh, what? Which one?” 

“Your old P.E. shirt from high school.” 

“Gross!” Stan laughed, inspiring a chuckle from Wendy. “That’s so nasty, dude. The pit stains are probably crazy.” 

“I don’t care,” Wendy admitted. “It’s cozy. I meant to give it back, but…” 

“Nah, keep it. It’s fine.” 

Wendy laid back down. Sprawled across her bed with her phone tucked to her ear, talking to Stan whilst wearing an article of his clothing—it made her feel like a teenager again. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” Stan replied. 

“I wish things were like they used to be,” Wendy mumbled. 

“Back when?” Stan prompted. 

“I don’t know. Whenever things weren’t so complicated.” 

“Things have always been complicated. We were just too young to notice. Or care.” 

“Kenny notices everything,” Wendy said, “but he doesn’t care.” 

“No, he cares,” Stan objected. “He cares too much, so he can’t care at all. It’ll just eat him alive otherwise.” 

Wendy hummed. “That makes sense.” 

There was some shuffling from Stan’s end. “Shit. Kyle’s gonna be home soon. I gotta go.” 

Wendy’s heart sank, the illusion of simplicity—of having someone like Stan to herself and herself only—broken in an instant. “Oh. Okay.” 

“We’ll talk more later,” Stan promised. “You’re okay, right?” 

Wendy plastered on a forced grin out of habit, though Stan could not see it. “I’ll be fine.” 

“Cool. If you need anything—let me know.” 

“I will.” 

“Okay. I love you, Wends.” 

“I love you too, Stan.” 

Wendy let her phone slip from her ear. She turned her face into her mattress and sighed, her whole frame drooping with the exhale. 


	6. Kenny Illustration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter is almost done. here are some drawings 
> 
> first up is kenny at the start of the fic. dude...get some sleep


	7. Wendy Illustration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wendy, yearning, bemusedly 
> 
> might do butters next!

**Author's Note:**

> i am VERY excited to unveil this new fic. updates will be scheduled by how far ahead i am in terms of writing. 
> 
> please let me know what you think!
> 
> disclaimer: i don't know anything about psychiatric conduct or the details of social work. sorry for the inevitable inaccuracies lol!


End file.
